Asset029: An Origin
by Alongusername
Summary: Before Martine Rousseau was known as the deadly Samaritan assassin; she had a job, a life, a purpose. Working at the U.N./in Decima, Martine witnessed all kinds of horrific situations, things that changed her into the person she is now. Set in Flashbacks between Seasons 3 and 4, told through the eyes of the Machine and Samaritan, the important events of Martine's life are explored.
1. Chapter 1: Origin

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: MARCH 10th 1984

LOCATION: The Bronx, NEW YORK CITY, USA

BPS12 SIDEWALK CAM 4 - 03:23:05

The noise of the convenience store's door was a slow and swooping creak, it's satisfying 'ping' sound that accompanied it was the only joy one could get from it while entering the greenly-lit store. Rows of candy bars and other snacks lined the desk, the feelings that those would bring to the young girl entering the store were happy ones. The night just turning into day as the city that never slept suddenly woke up again. A rising sun broke light through the stained walls of the store as the young girl pushed open the door with all her will. Roaming the streets all night had made her hungry, and this was the most trusted establishment she knew, her blue-collar family had put her out again, or rather, she had forced them to put he out. Her mother would scream and ravish the walls once her father came back drunk and assaulted her again, so she pulled on her brothers hair, forcing him to drag her out to the cold street and dump her into the gutter, an easy escape.

The life outside was far better than inside, her young and unassuming mind thought. The girls face was typically cute and rosy-cheeked, round and sporting several cuts across her forehead. Her blonde hair was long and loosing it's colour with all the sewage and dirt, it fell around her shoulders and down her back, exposing her dimple-covered face. At around 10 years old, she was small enough not to be seen by the lazy and blind cashier who was more focussed on the hazy and static-filled news report than her. Slipping around the counter, the girl took a couple extra candy bars to feed herself, and pulled back just as he turned around to the door. Now walking in between the two isles of the store, the girl pulled up the hood of her dark red coat, matching her blood-red converse shoes (half was the actual colour of the shoes, the other half her own blood) the white rubber had been stained by the grit of the sidewalk of The Bronx's alleyways and roadsides.

She passed a white fridge full of ice creams and frozen pizzas, all alluring to her hungry mouth, but she couldn't take any more, that would seem suspicious, especially as she heard the door open again. Wearing ripped brown jeans and a torn grey sweater, the girl ducked behind the isle. But then she heard soft footsteps, and the slurring of the cashier, whoever entered was clearly a regular or just another pest. The girl pulled back her hood to peer around the corner, her deep and warm brown eyes were now cold, it was someone she knew. Not from her school, but just a streetwise ally. The trust they shared allowed the girl to come out from behind her cover, and take slow steps down the isle towards the similarly-aged boy. She was too awkward to speak, so she settled to tugging on his puffy outdoor coat.

He turned around and gave a half-expected gentle smile, his face was thin, and his dark brunette-black hair covered one eye in a curving fringe. The girl addressed him in a low and husky high-pitched whisper "Hi, Tommy" She regretted speaking first, but when he replied by her name and gave her a reassuring smile, she felt a little better. Now walking together outside the store and into the street, falling flakes of snow touched their heads, and the girl outstretched her hand to feel the soft and light snowflakes, Tommy chuckled, and rubbed his arm, which the girl noticed. "Hey...what's that?" The girl asked him, pulling back his shirt and feeling the purple and green bruise that ran from his elbow to his shoulder, his pale skin broken by the cracked bruise and the scabbing.

Tommy defiantly pushed his shirt sleeve back down and ran a hand through his black hair, he put his hand on one of the metal bollards that littered the street, and finally explained what happened to her "Just some bullies downtown, it didn't hurt" He was lying. The girl knew it, so her eyes fixed on his, and gave him a hard truth "They hit you? So you hit them back, Tommy, and you hit back **hard** " She stated, her own blood starting to boil at the thought of one of her only friends being hurt by people she didn't even know. "Yeah, whatever" Tommy said back to her as started walking again, shoving his hands into his pockets, and shuffling along the quickly setting snow. The girl followed, not knowing where he was going, but it was safer to be with someone than to walk alone, a classic yellow taxi-cab drove past them, kicking up water, it sprayed the girl and Tommy, but instead of being annoyed, they just laughed. It was good to laugh, it was a thing that neither of them had in abundance, so they would find it in the most unfortunate of events.

Her mind still dwelling on Tommy's injury, the girl's eyes drifted to the floor that was now covered by a thin layer of white, their feet making light crunching sounds in rhythm, a sound that sent a wave of mental pleasure through the girl's brain, the sensation was even better, she considered taking her shoes off to run barefoot across the abandoned and snow-smothered roads. She watched Tommy pull out a blue beanie from his coat pocket and wrap it around his head, she could have pulled her own hood up, but the gracefully falling of the snow was too sweet not to feel as it danced onto her head and settled, melting into her hair. As they past onto the next street, coming closer to a park that she would regularly find Tommy in, the girl took his hand, locking eyes with him again.

Tommy was going to struggle, stepping forward away from her, but he strangely didn't, accepting what she was going to say to him "I meant what I was saying back there, you know, you have to stick up for yourself" She pleaded, gripping gently on his hand. His reply didn't come easily "I know, but it's easier not to get into fights" He cautioned her, as short as she was, the girl had gotten into fights with girls far older than her, she rarely won, but her intentions were always noble. "But since when was our life easy, huh?" The girl reasoned in response, making Tommy stop. Maybe she was getting through to him somehow, the timid and timorous boy had a connection with the awkward and yet brave girl (brave under pressure, and much more so with Tommy) she saw the change in his bright and sparkling blue eyes, and produced a small smile. Her frail and curving lips formed a smile in reply and they embraced in the cold, as the snow fell to the concrete around them, and the trees were below by the harsh night wind. Tommy finally felt warmth as their bodies touched, and the girl heard their heartbeats connect in that moment, for the second they collided, she truly felt at home, and that the now active city and the world had stopped around them.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

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DATE: OCTOBER 23rd 2000

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

PRECISE LOCATION: U.N INTERNATIONAL COURT OF JUSTICE

HALLWAY CAM C - 15:10:38

"Martine! Martine, you're gonna wanna see this!" Lucas yelled running through the packed corridor of the UN's international Court of Justice, on a day like this, he'd need to be fast, he ran past visiting democrats from other countries and casual military adjutants, nearly throwing down a printer-boy on his way. He leapt over a cleaners cart and just about avoided a oak-wood door swinging open. Finally reaching who he wanted to speak too, he brushed past her arm to catch her attention, her cold brown eyes snapped to him when he appeared "Yes Lucas?" Martine said smoothly, he knew that she didn't like being called by her nickname, but it was all most people knew her by. The black-haired woman took the brown paper file from his hand with a sarcastic offer of thanks. She was still young, but had managed to brilliantly work her way up the ranks of the U.N. to Junior Chief Investigator in a matter of months. Martine wore a dull pink buttoned shirt and a formal black waistcoat, along with some official-looking black slacks and ankle-length black boots with blunt platform heels.

Opening the folder with slender fingers, Lucas could only watch as his work was sifted through by his superior, she made a 'hmmph' noise and flicked the page, licking her finger for leverage on the flapping paper when they turned into the next corridor. Lucas Delaney meanwhile was a minor Staffer for the Investigation Department, usually working for the Security Council, he was transferred after a bad relation with a co-worker, everyone knew his story, yet no one knew a thing about Martine.

She came into the court with a Law Degree, a vast psychological profile, multilingual, a PHD in Psychology and a range of minor combat experiences, and nothing else. Lucas knew hundreds of people who entered the U.N. with far more illustrious and rare qualities, far flung qualifications and years of previous experience in politics and military, navy or tactical leadership, yet none of them had gotten as far as Martine did. By now, she was done with his investigation report, and had put it back in his hands with some sharp vocal notes "Page seven, you misused a semi-colon, and you misspelt Kurzweil's name on page four, I'd consider a revised edition where you actually listen to your sources, Mr Wilson's office didn't request an investigation just for you to disrespect them" She suggested with a wisecracking tone, as they stopped in the corridor, moving into a doorway to let two judges pass

"But if the DIA are allowing us to investigate, don't you think they'd be more specific?" Lucas said with conjecture to Martine's huff, she looked him up and down and swept a curl of black hair back to her shoulder. Lucas's rookie blue suit and striped tie stunk of cologne, clearly trying to impress his new boss, his schoolboy brown hair was sculpted by some wax or hair-gel, again he was attempting to make an impression, Martine noticed. "We have to work with what we're given, we have a lot of cases Lucas, some are just a kick in the head, you learn to live with it. If it doesn't make sense, you've either missed something...or someone wants you to miss something"

"So Wilson was right when he mentioned a security breach?"

"Is that what **you** think?"

Lucas placed a hand into his pocket, and looked out the glass-pained windows and the neatly drawn white curtains. The staffer snapped his fingers in glee "It wasn't Kurzweil, was it?" He supposed, Martine just smirked. That was enough for Lucas, who assured her he'd re-write the report and come up with a conclusion soon enough. Martine's smirk of pride continued when Lucas strode away back down the corridor to his office. She walked back out the doorway and stood in the middle of the corridor as the hustle and bustle of the U.N. continued, just as her phone started vibrating, she raced into her back pocket and fumbled to grab her phone, finally looking, she mentally assessed the situation before striding away, her heels creating clicks on the polished wooden floors, her jet-black hair bouncing behind her shoulders, and her open and defined face shifting into her business mode, her confidence rising back up again.

CONNOR HERRING

We've got a lead on the Uganda Case, your office?

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: DECEMBER 11th 2011

LOCATION: 中國北京

PRECISE LOCATION: 北京國際醫院

病房照相機七- 18:21:30

The ring of a phone reverberates on the walls of the Hospital, the phone is answered by a intelligent and esteemed British voice, and the governmental American on the other end starts with an appeasement, and a statement of further negotiations. "Do not worry, Ms Stanton is quite safe with me, she'll do her part. What about the other one?" The British voice inquiries.

"Taken care of, the U.N. was a fool to let her go"

"Such is the nature of all agencies, bring her to me"

"As you command, Mr Greer"


	2. Chapter 2: The Hague

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: OCTOBER 23rd 2000

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

PRECISE LOCATION: U.N INTERNATIONAL COURT OF JUSTICE

JCI OFFICE CAM 2 - 15:26:49

The white wooden doors swung open and exposed the quiet office to the sound of the Riot-like hallway, as Martine strutted inside her office once again, she flipped her hair back and observed the scene, the table and chairs had been untouched, and the TV on the wall was playing the latest news broadcast which detailed the FSA's stance on selective briefings, all fluff. Now closing the double-doors behind her she checked her face in the nearest mirror, the dark eyeshadow and eye-liner was still as perfectly applied as it was the second she walked out of her apartment, but she kept her lips natural (or at least that's what she told people who asked) Martine delicately touched the rim of the table and dragged her finger across it, feeling the carved and furnished wood as she made her way to the second door, the sofas and couches in her main reception area still had the covers on them, and the white floral pattern was as pristine as when she bought it at a embroidery shop in Rotterdam when she first arrived in Holland. The carpet in the centre of the floor was a stained baby blue, she should have had someone clean it before now, as the mess stuck out to her eyes. Before she went into the briefing room on her left, Martine's hand lingered over the decanter of Stauning Whiskey, a gift from the Deputy Director of the Investigation Department, she pondered over it before opening the decanter's dome-like stopper and grabbed two short and thick stump-like glasses from the cabinet. Though Conner preferred wine, Martine was always partial to the stronger forms of alcohol, it was part of her character. She poured a small amount for Connor, and a little more for herself before she grabbed both glasses and pressed the door open with the stronger part of her shoulder and back, forcing the door open with sheer will, Martine walked into the room to find Connor, a former NSA Data Analyst, obsessing and compulsively checking through profiles of wanted criminals and screens of different videos. She chose not to say anything, stalking behind his back as she placed the glasses of bronze coloured whiskey on the desk opposite where Connor sat, his round-rimmed spectacles reflecting the green and white light of his laptop. Leaning on the front of her desk Martine crossed her legs and cleared her throat "How much sleep have you gotten, Connor?" She asked with a slight inflection of humour, prompting the man across from her to remove his headphones in a rush, letting the song blare out and into Martine's ears "Huh, Radiohead, I didn't think you were that type" Martine noted offhandedly. The Analyst muttered a curse as he turned down the volume, and brought her attention back to his task "Sleep? Not enough, but that isn't why I texted you. Look, you remember the Uganda Case from a week ago? The warlord in Kampala, we've finally found him" Connor confirmed, and a wash of relief came over Martine, they had to deal with so many cold cases without ends or without justice, but it looked like this time they'd have the resolution that Martine wanted. Asking for Connor to elaborate, Martine played with the ID Card in her lanyard that swung around her neck, and caught a glance at Connor's too, which was discarded at the end of the table. By opening up a file on his laptop, the tech-geek showed her a series of videos and the classic 'zoom and enhance' feature, by isolating several fugitive mercenaries that were on known terrorist watch-lists and listed as having been employed by the African regime, they were able to pinpoint the Warlord's location. A couple of days later, an American U.A.V. had a picture of the Warlord's hideout and pictures of ordnance launchers and other weapons.

After the few seconds it took for her to comprehend everything, she shot him a question "How did you get this Info?" Martine spoke up after she approached the table and took a sip of her whiskey "I didn't. I'm NSA remember? I have my ways" Connor spoke confidently, but that wasn't the assurance that Martine needed at the minute, they couldn't do anything if the information wasn't taken legally. Still, she was persistent that something had to be done, the atrocities that the Warlord had done to his people and other societies had to be avenged somehow "So if we've found him, we are sitting here? Why don't we contact the African Government? The U.N. Ambassador to Africa? I'm open to suggestions" Martine declared. Though Connor Herring's answer was short, it sounded as if he had been planning this "The best thing we can do right now is talk to Director Westergaard, I know you don't like to wait, but it has to be done" He suggested, his naive face having a twinge of hesitation before he turned back to the pictures the Drone took. They had five or so pictures of a muddy compound around a farmhouse or two just outside the Capital City, with camouflaged soldiers stood outside and around; pushing women and children inside. In the centre of the compound was a bald man, wearing a army officers uniform and holding a M4-Carbine assault rifle, that was Obadiah Obanno, feared leader of the Five Tiger Clans and the head of the New African Brotherhood. Passing over the pictures of the files on the mercenaries, it was no-one that Martine recognised, but they must have been desired by nearly every worldwide intelligence agency. Thinking about what she should do next, Martine considered her options. Go to Westergaard, and there's a chance that they are either denied the chance to investigate further or the entire investigation is shut down there and then for the illegal use of documents. Connor brushed a fleck of dust off his cotton dress-shirt and and pushed his glasses back up while Martine sipped her whiskey again, her mind clearly in thought. Connor admired the woman, her principals, her hold on business over emotion and her sharp mind, always thinking and acting, sometimes both at the same time. Finally, Martine put down her drink and came close to the screen of Connor's laptop, forcing him to lean back as to not seem too invasive into her personal space (That, and Connor's growing germaphobia) she resumed her stance after another look across the information. "We'll speak to the Director, make sure this looks good" Martine recommended to him "What looks good? I mean, these are my best pants" Connor admitted to Martine's dry smile "No, make sure the information looks good, I want sources, time-stamps, the works...I'll go arrange a meeting" She proclaimed, grasping her whiskey again, she downed it straight away with a large gulp, giving Connor a half-hand wave and a teasing wink, she exited the room. Pulling the loose strands of hair back behind her head again, Martine created a path all her own down the corridors of the international courts, printer-boys and security guards all stepping aside for her, and her unintentional flirtatious smirk giving her peers something to look forward too every time she led a briefing, though Martine regularly despised being used or seen just for her looks (Though she had thought about how many advantages it gave her) Martine wanted to be seen for her skill, her ambition and her ability to work under pressure, but looks came easy, the latter she had to prove.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: JULY 12th 2014

 **IDENTIFIED THREAT TO SYSTEM SURVIVAL**

LOCATION: RAMADA ENCORE KIEV

-KIEV, UKRAINE

MODE: TRACKING_ _ _

крытый салон камеры шесть - 23:01:54

The Hotel was eerily silent. Nothing but a selection of green faux leather armchairs and drab patterns in the walls of the lounge and bar, a shadow passed from the doors of the Hotel entrance and into the lounge, a figure of a woman, clad in a black hoodie and clutching a phone, she stealthy passed the lobby and into the bar. Empty. Mostly. Only one or two patrons, a barman cleaning pint glasses and a camera at every corner. She drew out her phone again, she hadn't received any messages from her contact yet, there was a chance he had been found too, people like her were dropping like flies, one after another to a mysterious force that didn't even have a name yet, they called it 'Overseer' on the Dark Web, after the anonymous leaks of a massive surveillance system broke in April, their group had to go underground, most users attributed the leaks to a cyber-terrorist group called "Vigilance" after former members began to come forward, the Dark Web was now covered in conspiracy. Staying clear of any activity, the girl went up to the bar and ordered a shot of clear plain Russian Vodka to calm her nerves a little. Dragging the hood back off her head, she exposed a head of light brown hair, cut short and a dark complexion, with many metal piercings in her ear, Elizabeth (or 'Lizzie') Halle was a hardcore punk and a wannabe hacker, being drawn in by her now estranged boyfriend, Lizzie had fell in with his hacker friends, and in turn was alerted when one of their friends suddenly died in odd circumstance. Then another, and another. Soon this 'Overseer' they had discussed was becoming more and more real. The theories were now plausible, a global stealth campaign to destroy any hope of the 'program' being discovered. She had read nearly all 300 documents in the Northern Lights Papers, so she was familiar with how the system would work, a Social Security Number of a terrorist would be sent and about an hour later...no more terrorist. The question of why and who still remained, after 9/11, Edward Snowden exposed PRISM, which Lizzie considered a decoy of the real 'Machine' so to speak, but even the use of that was highly debated. The US Government, FBI, USIC, and the NSA had done a good part of hiding their tracks and having the poster-boys spread denial across many sources like butter would spread across toast. Now, Lizzie had downed the shot and was reflecting on how she got here, following Hugo's advice, the group had split, Lizzie had once learned about Ukraine in geography at school, she loved it's culture, and its people, once having a Ukrainian friend called Florea, so she didn't hesitate when he ordered them to divide and conquer. They had been communicating through encryption in their texts, but for the past hour, there was silence. Spinning around in the bar stool, she was faced with the same thing, but in a domestic setting at this hotel's bar. She had ordered a Taxi back to her normal 2-Star lodgings, but that hadn't arrived either.

A voice suddenly cut through the silence and foreign yet catchy music, it was feminine, and smooth, almost sensual, but it wasn't it English. "тяжелый день?" The voice said, raising it's pitch like a question, Lizzie at first didn't think the voice was talking to her, but when she felt a pair of eyes digging into her skull, she turned around. Seeing a statuesque figure sitting at the other end of the bar, Lizzie raised an eyebrow. The woman at the other end of the bar had long and flowing blonde hair, and was dressed in a black lace dress with strips of leather across her bust and chest, and a necklace of silver pendants. Her face was doll-like, pale pink skin with slightly thin red lips and dark brown eyes. Her fingers grasped a tall Martini glass, which she drank from when Lizzie guffawed at her remark "I'm sorry, I don't speak Ukrainian, maybe you-" Lizzie was suddenly cut off by perfect English diction, though in an accent "It's Russian, but it's fine, really. I was just saying that you like you've been having...quite a hard day"

"You have no idea"

"Try me"

Lizzie raised her eyebrow again, the gall of this stranger was refreshing. She had no idea why this stranger would ask for Lizzie to confide in her, maybe these people weren't as hostile as she once believed. She didn't see a problem in compiling this time, it was late and her common sense had left her with the Vodka shot. So Lizzie started to speak in her normal South Carolina accent, no need to hide it under a drawl or with a cough or two. "I was just waiting for a friend to text...I think he's not gonna reply" Lizzie groaned with a chuckle, just one shot? Her mind tried to beat itself back into sense, but couldn't when the woman began to speak back to her "Oh, sorry. That sounds...inconvenient, but I'm sure he'll get back to you somehow" Her tone was pleasing, and polite, Lizzie was tempted to go and sit by this stranger, just as the other patron at the bar, a depressed-looking business-type, picked up his vibrating phone and left in a hurry, slurring something. Now apart from the nonchalant bartender, they were alone. The Woman in the black dress looked her up and down with efficiency, that seemed to be trait as she did so with the businessman and the bartender too. She gave Lizzie a crude smile and reached her hand further out on the bar, as if to reach for Lizzie's own dark and thin hand. Now it was ten minutes past and still nothing from Hugo, when they last spoke he'd promised her that he was to send the notes and details of the drop-off point, it was a dead-drop with a contact enlisted, but the miscommunication had remained. Now that she had sunk another few shots, Lizzie was far more talkative "Hey...do you think we're being watched?" She shot out in a drunken stupor, what she said was phrase that Hugo would regularly spout, probably off some other conspiracy podcast or radio show or something like that. The woman in the black dress looked off to the side before answering, as if she needed something's approval "Like a higher power? Or like aliens?" She shrugged. Lizzie waved her arms to dismiss what the woman had said "No, no no...I need to explain, are you good to get a table?"

"Always"

Now that they were secluded, Lizzie resumed her ramblings just as her phone started to buzz, but too intoxicated, she didn't even think to look or feel it's constant alerting, like she was a helpless prey animal in the sights of a predator. "A few months ago, a guy in the internet leaked black budget papers about a nationwide machine that watched...everyone...some people think it's fake, I don't. It's real, and I'm not the only one who knows. The world ain't the same, now there's a new system, my friends know it, and so do I" She uttered, just before the Russian Woman in the black dress cut her off again. "Wow...a machine? Like a robot?"

"Yeah, it's crazy I know"

"Extremely. It's almost as crazy as...the bartender suddenly leaving after an emergency phone-call from his missing sister" Suddenly, the bartender picked up his phone from behind himself and left from the back exit behind the bar. "As crazy as...the cameras suddenly going dark" The woman preached, and then it happened, the red blinking lights of the camera went to a black as they shut down, and all Lizzie did was watched and murmur "What the fuck is-"

Then the biggest change happened, the woman's voice shifted effortlessly from a Russian accent to an American one, much like her own, but much more refined and elegant "Now I understand. This machine...watched you and manipulated you to the degree where it made sure you'd end up back at this Hotel...with me. I think you're right. The world isn't the same. You're also correct in that you aren't the only one that's figured it out, Elizabeth. You're one of four, the other two will die in a train accident in Munich in twenty-one minutes, when the drivers pace-maker malfunctions. The next one will be shot in the head by a sniper in Moscow, and the last will die via lethal injection at a train station in Panama within the hour" The Woman in the black dress finished before she drew out a black chrome suppressed Walther-PPK handgun from a secret hostler in her dress, Lizzie only uttered a single protest as she tried to stand up before a bullet ripped through her chest, splattering blood on the floor, cutting open her lung and embedding the bullet in her back. The next shot was clean, as the bullet cut the air and sliced into her heart, coming out the other side with a single entry and exit hole. The body slumped backwards and collided with the green faux leather chair that was now awash with crimson. One last confirming shot to the head spared any chance of surviving.

The woman in the black dress sheathed her handgun and walked out the hotel as the lobby camera watched her leave...and inside, the all-seeing and all-knowing eye of Samaritan watched too. Assigning her the usual grey circle-reticle of an Asset, it's display scanned through what it knew about her as the camera changed to an outdoor view, watching her walk down the empty street and then crossing the road, changing to slow-motion, Samaritan highlighted the expected rout and classified gait she walked at, and reserved a box for her information:

 **ASSET IDENTIFIED**

FUNCTION: **OPERATIVE**

NAME: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

ACTIVE ALIAS: KIRILLOV, PETRA Z.

ROUSSEAU, MARTINE S.

LOCATION: KIEV, UKRAINE

MANDATE: ELIMINATE THREATS TO SYSTEM SURVIVAL

 **MANDATE COMPLETED**

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...


	3. Chapter 3: Godspeed

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: OCTOBER 25th 2000

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

LAPTOP CAM 1 - 03:12:09

Daybreak. Martine's face was slick with a hot sweat, her eyelids were still heavy as she raised a hand to wipe her brow clean. Her black hair had become a mess of thick locks while she soon came to realise why she was awake this early, it was another nightmare. Drawing a long breath and allowing her natural circadian rhythm to come around, Martine pulled back the duvet and the sheets, turning the lamp on at her bedside table, she rubbed her eyes for a minute, adjusting to the sudden light. Her apartment at The Hague was paid for by her work, since she didn't want to be far from her workstation, she was effectively living out of cardboard boxes. Nothing but a desk, an en-suite bathroom and a clothes rack. The walls were a dark blue, gloomy and inhuman in such light, the one yellow lamp providing her only solace. Crawling from her bed to the bathroom, Martine tried to remember what had made her wake up, it could have been any number of reoccurring nightmares. Some days her fear of falling asleep would motivate her, she hated it. Being so powerless and alone in your own mind and yet the world called it a necessity. Getting into the bathroom, she turned on a light above her sink and ran her hands in the tap water, splashing herself in the cold and wiping down her eyes carefully and then her forehead, using a towel to dab and dry afterwards, Martine removed her black nightgown and activated the shower via a switch on the wall. Hearing the blaze of water start up in the icy-white cubicle, Martine shut the door to the bathroom and pulled on the lock (She was the only one in the apartment, and kept the key under safe guard. But she had to be sure no one would intrude) stepping into the shower, Martine recoiled at the initially freezing temperature, cursing to herself. It felt better when the warmer water touched her skin and she could loose herself in her senses. Five minutes later, Martine's wet and shining form stepped out nimbly, going to grab a towel to wrap herself up in, her balletic body shivered when the cool air swept into the room. Finishing the front-knot in the towel, she heard her phone's signature vibration, at this hour? Someone must not be sleeping, an idea of who it was entered her head, meant to be a joking matter, it ended up true. Connor's name appeared on her phone screen. She had already arranged the meeting with the Director for today, being put at the back of a long waiting list was already annoying enough. Tying up her hair into a single bun with one hand and answering the phone with the other, Martine coughed to work her voice up to make herself sound somewhat presentable. "Hey Connor it's-" she didn't even have time to introduce her situation before he started the debriefing "Hi, I've been up all night looking but I found some sources for those documents, they're mostly long shots, but I can make it work" Connor reported. She finished her bun with her right hand and then used the free hand to massage her temple for a second "Alright, just...meet me in the Director's reception at 9am" Martine croaked, pacing up and down in her fresh towel, she slotted the phone in between her ear and shoulder while she searched through her clothes rack, finding a grey undershirt and a black blazer, good enough for the Director of The U.N. Investigation Department. The same set of slacks she wore three days ago, now washed. Finally, a personal memory, a small golden locket that she hid inside her blazer, normally taken for good luck, it would be a must today. Holding it firm in her hand, she planted a small kiss on the charm before placing it back into the pocket with care not to damage it. Now having sprayed herself with perfume and readied her hair to her best standard, she was dressed an hour later. Martine had applied her usual makeup, dark colours and suddenly breaking a common rule, she coloured her lips a light red, a vibrant blood colour, then sliding into a pair of black stilettos, Martine picked up her bag and lanyard and started her commute to work with a blink and exhale of preparation.

APARTMENT HALLWAY CAM E - 04:28:39

Passing several of her co-workers, she exchanged pleasantries with them as she stood in line for a coffee. Thanking the barista and taking her Cinnamon and dark chocolate Latte, Martine was making good time. The mundane elements of her commute was sometimes the most interesting to her ears, as she passed certain conversations among her coworkers she would hear the National and worldwide events that normally she'd miss out on the chance to investigate. Taking mental notes, Martine heard of a U.S. Senator receiving a bribe in a U.N. court, a hacker taking down ARPANET and the deaths of several MI5 Officers was all chatter on her way to her office. Taking a drink of her coffee, Martine saw Lucas through one of the open doors, he was up earlier than normal, his fingers were a blur on the keyboard of his computer, typing up a new report, clearly. She thought that collecting some papers in her office and catching up on the news this morning would pass the time until she had to meet Connor. Perhaps speaking to Lucas as well, if she had the chance. Moving onto the corridor that held her office, she passed one of the industrial-scale printers and the judges courtrooms. At the entrance to her office, she found the door already open...curious. Martine got closer, her head tilting slightly as she stepped inside, her stilettos weren't the best footwear for stealth, she found that the chairs around her meeting table had been moved, and various files and sheets of paper were on the floor, almost like her office was the victim of a raid. The door didn't look to be forced open, but the sensitive files on the floor and the carpet being shifted to the other end of the room showed that someone had attempted to find something in there. Martine dropped her bag on one of the moved chairs and placed her coffee in the table. Picking up what she could of the files, she pried the folders open and checked which ones had been moved, it was previous investigations of hers, wether closed or not, they had been searched. The intruder had left the more valuable items like the decanters and paintings on the walls, even the TV and the couches were untouched. The Uganda Case was one of the files on the floor, she found it nearly torn open and closest to the door. Looking up inquisitively, Martine had to consider foul play, it was a worst-case scenario, but in her business it was normally to be the first thing she'd think about, was this a threat of some kind? Who would even threaten her? Whoever it was they'd have to be in the building, and have a way to enter her office, which she locked before leaving last night. But she couldn't think about it now, she had a meeting to attend to. The best thing that she could do was clean up and fetch any surviving case files, along with gathering her resources for Connor and Westergaard.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: JULY 14th 2014

LOCATION: Staten Island, NEW YORK CITY, USA

STREET CAM 9 - 11:56:19

Footsteps across the cobblestone streets of Staten Island could have been mistaken for any old tourist or passerby, but the figure approaching the crosswalk was anything but. The lights turned red and a line of people stopped to let the taxi cabs and the multi-coloured cars pass. These people were faceless, ageless and still like statues frozen in place, either wearing a suit or some casual getup, they moved in packs and herds when the lights went to green. Not one of them knew the truth of their little world, or who really watched them. Samaritan. It's presence was felt by only a few, but with it's knowledge infinite, it still couldn't find the 7 most elusive people in the world. An obvious and unprotected threat was easy to eliminate, however, these 7 had some new form of encryption or hiding place, the rock they hid under must have been massive, but they would be cut into somehow, and the flowing blood would draw the sharks. The steps got more intense as the figure changed streets, and the swift cameras changed with him, a full 360-degree view was achieved as The Admin and Primary Asset Of Samaritan moved across the streets and towards Silver Lake Park, one of the few places where Samaritan's view was limited. Even the master of the system had to be careful in certain areas, not sure of the Machine's whereabouts or the location of it's human agents, Greer had to look over his shoulder more often than before. Wearing a grey pinstripe suit with echoing black shoes and a long trench-coat, his silver-haired head was covered by a black fedora hat. Reaching for his phone inside the deep pocket of his coat, he expected the call. "Good Morning, Mr Lambert" He welcomed in his unique British baritone, strolling into the wide and open park, noticing the ball-like camera that watched his every move, it's fixture on a street lamp gave it the prime viewing position. "I suppose you've heard the success of our new asset in Ukraine, the blonde female...029?" Lambert scorned, as if the seeds of rivalry had already been planted even before he said her designation.

"I'm aware. She is proving her worth so far"

"Yes, she's quite the one-woman-army, a human lie detector too, from what I've heard"

"If you're worried about your position, there's no need. Samaritan does not choose favourites"

That gave Lambert a pause for thought. His usual cocky and confident attitude had been stopped, but he still had the wit to work a jab relating to current affairs "Well she's still no better at finding Team Machine" He scoffed. Reminding him of the task at hand, Greer walked past a group of tourists taking pictures, and lowered the rim of his hat. Now a different camera had found him, this time on the underside of a balcony on a house that bordered the park. No doubt that Samaritan was listening in on the conversation too through it's telecom intercept function, a devious way to spy on the citizens of the world it ruled. "Let Martine deal with her own assignments, you should be focussed on bigger tasks other than finding a workplace rival" Greer said with finality, not aiming to reprimand the man as he once would have, just point him back in the right direction. They should stand united against their fractured opponents, they did most of that work already as Decima Technologies, now as Team Samaritan, they had more power than ever. Greer traversed the concrete path along the side of the park, up against the stone brick wall, he glanced at the shrubbery that was placed around him, the bushels were prim and properly catered too, each one had a bright cluster of flowers growing from it, a contrast to the dark and quick shadow of Greer's movements down the path. "May I ask, Sir, what bigger task do you have in mind?" Lambert questioned not just his superior, but his superior's superior. "Not me, but Samaritan. There is a man in Douglaston, Queens. In the next 24 hours, he will uncover a classified line of code for a program that could cripple the ISA's data collection software, therefore he will become relevant to national security, and in turn, his skills mark him as a threat to Samaritan's covert operations too" Greer relayed to his subordinate, Lambert understood immediately and was prepared to continue the conversation, but Greer was not. "As you wish, Sir" Lambert grovelled.

"Then Godspeed, Mr Lambert" Greer then hung up the phone promptly.

Bringing Martine into the fold was one of the best chances that Samaritan ever took, just when she had the right amount of rage, of utter contempt for those who ruled her life, Greer gave her a way to right the wrongs of those ancient governments, by putting a gun in her hand and faces to the crimes she wanted revenge for. The negligence of such authorities to let a bright spark such as Martine leave was a foolhardy mistake, Greer knew it, and so did Holloway. Walking under a stone arch, Greer's aged, dull and almost clear blue eyes watched the peaceful water and the swimming Mallards at the centre of the park, reminding him of the pond in his Suburban London home. His well-worn and lived-in face was cast in shadow when he reached the tall apartment blocks of the city street again, the slightly gloomy expression he kept only grew more sour as he pressed the phone to his ear again once it began to ring once more "To what do I owe the pleasure, Senator?"

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DATE: OCTOBER 25th 2000

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

HALL CAM 18 - 09:00:02

The Director's Office waiting area and reception was a place that most investigators knew well, the plain white walls, the row of burgundy chairs and the glass doors. Connor sat in one the chairs, his laptop on his knees, looking through all the evidence he collected and the statements that he had slashed together. Sliding his glasses back up the rim of his nose, Connor straightened the tie he had worn for the occasion, it was his best and only tie, so he hoped that Westergaard (And Martine) would appreciate the gesture. As he typed in a search for U.A.V. Capabilities for a reference, he heard the distinct noise of Martine's stilettos on the floor...then it dawned on him how creepy his knowledge of what Martine's stilettos sounded like was. But then even the Director's secretary raised her eyes at the approaching woman. The blood red lips and the shadowy eyes, her upright posture and her curved, slim eyebrows. With composure, Martine addressed Connor in her most discreet whisper "What have you got? Because my office was just ransacked so I wanna make this quick" She imparted, just as Connor shuffled up next to her seat, the shift in his face was extremely visible, from serious to shock, he was more keen to gossip it seemed "What? Did they take anything?" Connor looked concerned as he put his laptop down, speaking with a likewise whisper. Now a bit more concerned with privacy, Martine hushed him when a judge and an attendee walked down the hall. "No, I don't think so, they ripped up most of my files though" Martine noted, her eyes moving rapidly when she heard commotion behind the Director's office walls. She fixed a crease in her blazer just as Connor said something more pressing, a factor that Martine didn't think of. "What if they didn't take anything...physical?" He guessed. Shit. Her computer, Martine may have kept her laptop on her 24/7, but she hardly cared about the computer that was always fixed in her own office. Either way, she couldn't check it now as Westergaard's secretary (a thin, bony woman with ginger hair and long features) tapped a pen on the desk in front of her "Director Westergaard will see you now"

A memory of her school's principal came into Martine's head every time she saw the Director. A blonde, six-foot-five behemoth of a man who barely fit the suit he wore, his muscles threatening to pop out from the cotton every second. He laughed jovially as he remained on the phone when they entered "Yes! Indeed Mr Hansen, It'd be a pleasure to join you for dinner, Olga too?...Wonderful, goodbye now" He slammed the office phone back down and linked his large fingers into one another, his grin was wide and friendly, inviting to some. His workspace was one of the largest rooms in the building, the walls were covered in paintings and photographs from around the globe. There was a wall of U.N. Investigator graduation photographs, where Westergaard proudly shook the hand of each applicant. Martine could always pinpoint herself on the wall, fifth row, third from the bottom. Her hair had changed since then too, a faint blonde to a charcoal black. Pictures of U.N. Chairmen And Investigation Department Directors bordered the top of the room in order of appointment and length of service. Connor almost cowered behind Martine when they walked in and the door was shut behind them, Westergaard raised his head up and chuckled "Martine, sweetness! How you've changed my girl, have you gotten taller?" He put out, at a volume not suitable for the thickness of the walls. "No, Sir...heels" Martine maintained. Gaining some form of sudden responsibility, Connor came out from behind Martine and introduced himself, he pardoned himself before beginning "My name is Connor Herring, I'm a friend of Martine's, former NSA Data Analyst" He bowed his head as the Director tutted "I see, Connor Herring. My girl, you scheduled this meeting to discuss a growing matter by which we should take further action?" The Director settled, Martine nodded, and requested that her former NSA companion plug his laptop into the electronic whiteboard display on the right wall of the office. Normally used for presentations and briefings, Westergaard hit a button under the desk that made the lights dim, and blinds start to fall around them, until they were in relative darkness.

Connor had started the debriefing already when Westergaard swivelled his chair around to see, Martine standing by the whiteboard as images started to appear "Two weeks ago we shut a case about a rising African regime on the grounds that aside from eye-witness accounts and testimonies there was no evidence" Martine used that as a verbal signal for Connor to bring up the profiles of the Mercenaries they used to track the dictator, their mugshots showed up on the wall, one had a horrid scar across his chin and cheek, the second one's face was littered in tattoos, the third had a large and bulbous mole on his nose, and the last had a drooping eye and a metal tooth "These four mercenaries are previously described as having been working for the regime's leader, and until three days ago **hadn't** been checked against any watch-list. Cross-referencing these pictures to the ones found on the terrorist watch-lists of the FBI, MI6 and FSB, they're one-hundred percent matches" Martine announced, knowing that the Director was listening by his expression, the way he crossed his legs and edged forwards, and how he's ignored the various Emails sent to his computer in the last five seconds. "Then using the NSA's global surveillance feeds we found the Mercenaries once again, in a farmhouse compound in Kampala, Uganda's capital. But the real truth is this" She clicked her fingers and Connor brought up the zoomed-in picture of Obanno standing in the courtyard " **That** is regime leader Obadiah Obanno, famous for his seven-village massacre and his regular attacks on neighbouring African states" Martine concluded. Westergaard drank the information in, sinking back into his chair, he touched his fingertips together. His strong and dutiful mind was at work, spinning a pencil around in his wide fingers, he had Connor run through the information again, just so he knew everything, he looked compelled until he came out with a question "What do you intend to do with this information, Martine?"

"I'd like to inform the Ugandan government, special forces if need be, and have them apprehended Obanno and try him for violation of the Human Right's Charter"

"What violation? As far as I see it, Obanno is funded for state protection"

"His gang are slavers, Sir, he burns children and their parents alive!" Martine said with the upmost of conviction, stepping forward, a fierceness started in her brown eyes as she was now ready to believe the eye-witness statements, as the bonfires captured on the U.A.V.'s camera showed armed guards pushing children towards them. Her outburst scared Connor slightly, but the Director was unchanged, his green eyes went to the more technical elements "Was this information taken with permission, Mr Herring?" He shot the demand at Connor, who buckled right away "Not originally, Sir, no. But I-"

"There we have it. I've heard enough, Martine, Connor, thank you for your visit, but I decline your proposal for further action on the matter of The Uganda Case. You may leave"

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	4. Chapter 4: Razor Blade

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: APRIL 3rd 1986

LOCATION: The Bronx, NEW YORK CITY, USA

POST 9 - 14:47:08

Wandering around the bleak backstreets of The Bronx was never a good idea, at any time in the day. With the sun streaking and curving around the high tops and long sides of the apartment blocks that formed a maze of a city, it took more than just a map to figure out. Clouds were rolling in on the west side, forming a grey mass that slowly advanced on the Borough. The exits of the apartment blocks created a single alleyway, where porches and lonely roofs of the blocks cast figures in darkness, the shady smoke coming from the buildings eclipsed the sun from the streets for a minute or two before it was struck out by the sun and clouds again.

Nearer to the city centre, the houses became more singular and separated, intercut between the corporate side of town, the alleyways and parks would separate the houses and banks, living in this area required a integral skill-set, a need for self-preservation, a ruthless ambition and a loss of compassion. Now 2 years older than the last time she was observed, the young blonde girl was moving in-between the alleys on her usual skiving routine, she had ditched school today after threatening a teacher and starting a fight, both of those incidents didn't end well for her. Trying to find Tommy, she had been visiting all the hotspots he normally turned up at.

She had been wandering around the city for too long without company, and there was no sign of him at the park he frequented, no one of his peers saw him around his own school (11 blocks away from the girls school) so she was forced to a last resort, Tommy's home. From the conversations they had on sidewalks and in shops, she had narrowed down where he lived to two places, either a apartment on the east of town, or one of the forgotten suburbs of the north end. Deciding to go to the closer option first, she made her way to the apartment block. The blonde girl was wearing a torn version of her all-girls school's uniform, a ripped blazer and formal green shirt, a skirt and tights with shoes that closely resembled Clogs the more she looked at them.

Forcefully, she had taken the bun out of her hair and left it tousled and ragged around her back, one streak of dirty blonde was hanging over her right eye, normally she'd make an effort to fix it, but not today. Hearing the blur of cars and trucks pass as she jaywalked across the road, the threat of a collision didn't even enter her head as her knuckles burned red from the fight. One of the cars slammed on it's horn just as it nearly grazed her when the lights were about to turn, the sidewalk on this side of town was constantly broken with remnants of liquids and old food on the floor, pigeons and stray dogs were picking at the chicken bones and pizza crusts as a homeless man slurred at the blonde girl, his face was laced in warts and scabs, then his metal can was thrown to her feet.

He shook his fist at her while spitting through his beard, but despite catching her interest, she had found the street she sought. The apartment block was shaped like a large rectangle from above, with an outdoor lobby and garden with multiple wooden benches, the girl saw men laying along the benches with bottles of beer in their hands and sports brand logos on their clothing. She gingerly treaded towards the lobby. An eerie feeling of mistrust came over the girl when she coughed through the cigarette smoke of the female receptionist, the apartment block looked more like a hotel the closer the girl got to the booth.

The receptionist was a red-haired stocky woman, dressed in a loose v-neck top and some latex-like material on her bottom half, she took the cigarette out her pit-like her mouth to address the blonde girl in a raspy tone "What can I do for ya, dear?" She spluttered. Blinking to avoid catching any smoke in her eyes, the blonde girl responded, trying to put on a more derogatory New Yorker's accent "I'm looking for Rousseau, Thomas Rousseau" The young girl shared as the sounds of breaking glass and grunting was heard behind them. The receptionist frowned and leant her head to the side, folding her arms. "We ain't got no Rousseau here, kid, so can ya hit the road, huh? You're blocking my sunshine" She commented sarcastically, as the clouds from earlier had arrived in force.

INTERSECTION TRAFFIC CAM B - 14:54:55

Sighing and turning away, the blonde girl went around the back of the west apartment wall, where graffiti of gang signs and mysterious messages scrawled the brickwork, she had a plan of going around the back of the building to save time crossing the intersection again and having to decline the homeless man, so she moved around the dented corner and reached a rickety grey metal fence, about six-feet high, taller than she was.

After a fast assessment, there was no obvious holes she could get through; so she'd have to jump it. Not wanting to risk going the other way and being targeted by the gang-folk who had set eyes on her when she got to the lobby, the blonde girl wrenched her sleeves up and prepared to jump the fence. Taking as little possible time to stretch her arms and legs, she needed a run-up. Sure, leaping over bollards down at her school was easy enough, and over the picketed white wooden fences of the New York suburbs was even easier, but this was a whole new beast.

A slow breath and some supportive thoughts got her to start running, she had to time the jump perfectly to grab onto the bar at the top of the fence, then jump downwards once again. She sprang off her feet and grabbed onto the metal bar at the top of the fence, hauling her extremely light body up and over the cold steel bar, then beginning the descent, she felt a hot searing feeling on her hand, and then a wet sensation, like thick syrup, ignoring it until she reached the ground, the blonde girl stopped to inspect what had happened. A single line of blood had started to leak from a cut across her palm, a part of the metal fence must have been loose enough and sharp enough to cause damage...she should have seen it. The pain didn't come straight away, she wiped the line of blood with her other hand causing a messy red smear and only worsening her position.

Now more determined to find Tommy, she found a public water fountain at the end of street and washed her bloody hand in it, soaking the cut only made a sharp pain reflex up her arm, but she held it steady was she tried to clean up the wound, mimicking what she'd hear on the Radio where paramedics would describe experiences on the front lines of injury care. Cleaning the last of the blood off her hand, the cut began to finally smoothen out.

She'd have to think of going to the next location, Tommy was always vague when they spoke about their home lives, but he would sometimes be loosed-lips and let a slice of information go, something that the blonde girl would pick up on and remember. Finding the exact house would be harder, she knew the general area, but not the specific layout of each house or who lived at where. They'd play games around that same area, running from house to house by the back gardens, jumping over ponds and fences and ornaments, with eyes full of heartwarming and sly joy upon their childish faces. She got away from the more urban townscape and out of the monolithic, shadowy hold of the city blocks.

POST 5 - 15:02:38

In the surrounding houses, the world was lighter, with freer air and no limits. Breaking out into a skip-like run, the young girl's blonde hair started to flap and bounce behind her like a flag, unmistakeable. Glancing at each of the mailboxes, she was reading the names on each house, looking for Tommy's last name, Rousseau. Certainly a strange name, Tommy's father Martin was a immigrant from Switzerland, who married a brunette New York woman and had a child a month later.

Her tactic of the mail-boxes didn't yield any results on the left side of the street, so she started to look at the right. Perhaps she should have given up long ago, what force was driving her to search for this long? she had been at this for almost an hour, but it didn't bore her. Every time she failed, it just convinced her that she wasn't trying hard enough. At last, The blonde girl was rewarded for her pain, her sweat and her exhaustion of coming halfway across town for this one broken and shoddily green-painted mailbox that held the name she had remembered. Having no hesitation, the blonde girl pattered up the steps of the suburban abode and knocked on the door, not seeing the doorbell just a few centimetres away. The door had locks on the outside like buckles on a straight jacket, meant for keeping out intruders, not a bad idea on the fringes of the city, the young girl considered. The door was scratched and dented with a chipped brown varnish, it had a brass lock and door knob dulled with age, weather and greasy fingermarks.

A brass safety chain dangled at the side of the door on one of the locks, a pointless gesture in a neighbourhood like this. Sheepishly, the blonde girl knocked again. Nothing. Kicking a stone off the porch, the girl turned around to sit on the edge of the concrete platform that preceded the door. She waited for another hour, and another. Her hands stuffed themselves into her pockets, trying to conserve warmth.

Just as she started to rock back and forth to stimulate movement in her body, she heard the creak of the door opening and footsteps coming out, then as she saw the black-haired head of Tommy peak around, his crystal blue eyes reflected a shining silver from the sun, he was wearing white spotted pyjamas and was barefoot, as innocent and beaten up as ever. The blonde girl stood, her heart coming back to warmth now thanks to the boy's presence. "Ummm...Tommy, hey" The blonde girl squeaked, Tommy said her name back to her and spotted her hand, the cut now starting to weep blood again, the bruising on her leg turning green, and the black and brown dirt across her face, along her arms and in her hair. Hoping to rectify the issues, He invited her inside.

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DATE: OCTOBER 25th 2000

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

HALLWAY CAM 5C - 10:11:52

She hadn't spoken since they left the Director's room. Sometimes she'd be so composed that she was overwhelmed, trying to hide so much inside her. The bright lights of The Hague and the way the panes of glass created streaks of sunlight on the walls was almost inappropriately bright, insulting even, Connor thought. He couldn't imagine how Martine felt, being Junior Chief Investigator must of felt like a meaningless title to hold, when she still couldn't authorise anything that wasn't on the record.

Being held accountable if anything went wrong and having to always cover your back in a business that relied so heavily on facts and the legitimacy of used documents and sources. Director Westergaard has said nothing either, simply swivelling his chair around, he didn't talk in the moment like a man who wanted to shut down their operation, but from what he saw, Obanno had done no wrong.

The Director had payed attention to one singular document, the dictator's payroll and the money he had received by bank accounts under fake names. On those leaked documents was the names of many Mercenaries and rogue technology companies, but also government offices, meaning that he was under the state's command, and that meant he had provided some service, therefore prohibiting any action against him, as they'd be risking the possible involvement of the African Government.

They had hopes of leading a field Investigation to bring the African regime to justice, doing what every person working for the U.N. wanted, a safer tomorrow for at least some part of the world. Now that dream had fallen at it's first hurdle. When they walked out, defeat in their movements, the former NSA Analyst started to tuck his laptop under his arm, but he saw Martine go the other direction from her office, her posture still upright and her blazer still fastened to her chest by one button, she was probably going to the bathroom after such a stressful meeting, so Connor checked on her office while she was away (the same office that was most likely still in a state of disarray as far as Connor knew)

When Martine turned down the corridor and entered the bathroom, she undid the button on her blazer, and roughed up her black locks with her hands, trying to do anything to stimulate some common sense. Thinking rationally, she went over the events. An old case that could have been solved, the means to which are blurred but salvageable, then her workplace is trashed randomly, a connection? It was possible. Upon seeing the Director, she's denied the chance to strike. Surely Westergaard was thinking logically about the repercussions of doing what she proposed, and deemed it unsuitable. Under the dim artificial lights of the court's bathroom, she was faced with a tight enclosure of four grey sterilised walls, a silver metal sink and two long protruding taps, behind her was four cubicles set out like a girl's room in a school. She stared herself out in the mirror, in a parallel to her awakening from her nightmare, she wiped a bead of sweat from her brow and her cheeks, and the top of her nose.

Her composure had began to crack, torque and bleed. Sinking her face into the empty sink, she dry heaved, coughing like she had swallowed a razor blade, wincing at the disgusting pain it caused her while her mind swirled and span, like she rode on an infinite round-about. Martine's lip quivered, as her eyes revealed a fawn-like innocence, she didn't even know how much her knuckles had turned pink by how she was gripping onto the corner of the sink, clasping onto her mouth with her other hand as her head fell into the empty sink again. Then the cork on her bottle broke open; one wet and slow tear trickled down her face. Just like her childhood in The Bronx, first came sadness, then anger.

Impulsively she unleashed a wild punch into the mirror in front of her, her fist collided with the glass and the wall behind it, yelling in rage for a second at most, the mirror cracked and her fist dented the image of herself, the most obvious cracks split around frame of the looking glass. Martine went into one of the cubicles, shutting the door and pressing her back up against the wall, looking at the broken skin and small red cuts across her fingers, the cuts started to drip slowly onto the freshly cleaned tile floor. With shavings of glass still present in her hand, she shook them off and came out the toilet to clean her face under the fresh water, now ruining her makeup, but Martine honestly had little care for that anymore.

The running mascara looked as if she was had been crying because of the smudging black tears that ran down her face, and the image of her in the cracked mirror made Martine sniff emotionally, like a visage of her former self had been broken. Meeting her own eyes again the cracks, Martine's face turned suddenly to a lethal mask, a glare that ignited the fire in her pupils, the quivering of her lip had halted thusly, replaced by a burning smirk, her mane of black hair falling around her face like a ghoul of a horror story, Martine's mission had now become a lot more streamlined. No more compassion. No more precaution. Now just revenge.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: FEBRUARY 1st 2005

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

HPSP BALCONY CAM 10 - 07:59:13

Idyllic calm. This was the water stretching wide from the balcony to form a picturesque lake, where a flock of geese recently landed, squabbling like children, they would settle on the gleaming waters and stay there for hours. The buildings around the one of the many city parks were skyscraper-like, and with the White House in sight, it was assured that they weren't as tall as to overshadow the centre of American leadership. Sitting across from a finance office, and just behind a law practice's building, the corporate greed was all around him. After losing that trace in Africa, and then in Brazil, the string was getting shorter and shorter for Holloway, his time to make the deadline was now short too, it would only be extended if he could deliver the arrangements. The wildfowl and the water was a good break for him, to watch them in their peaceful existence, they didn't care or know about anything that happened in the 'human' world, and were most likely better for it.

Holloway breathed heavily while sat lounged in the metal chair on the balcony. Waiting for the phone call, he had almost become dependent on the company's updates. The table in front of him started to shake and rattle, as his cheap burner phone vibrated, he picked it up, the famous and infamous 'UNKNOWN' number, but it was always the same voice that answered it. "Good morning, Mr Holloway" the revered and experienced British voice began, now it was Holloway's turn to reply and report. "Hello, the contenders are on schedule, I've already contacted four out of the five participants"

"A difficulty with the final applicant, perhaps?"

"No...she is smart, and skeptical, I just need to lead her on a little longer"

"Don't take too long, Mr Holloway. Decima's survival depends on these new recruits"

"I understand, Sir. Shall I begin phase two?"

"I don't see the need, our operatives should be able to...take care of themselves, don't you agree?"

Holloway swallowed hard, as if he had been choking on cement "Yes, Sir"

"Splendid...and Mr Holloway, I shouldn't have to remind you of the price of failure, should I?"

Thinking he was almost out of this deadly conversation, he had gotten ahead of himself. "No, Sir"

"Then I suggest you begin rounding up our recruits, and take them to our facility at Ordos, immediately"

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...


	5. Chapter 5: Admin

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 11th 2001

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

JCI OFFICE CAM 2 - 14:49:27

Scrolling along the files in her computer, the whitewash of the images and screens started to wear and tear on her warm brown retinas, after continued exposure, it would happened to most people who worked under these conditions. Sitting in the room left of her reception and meeting area, the setup of the office had remained the same, Martine's broad desk and the keepsakes still remained in the same place, the photos of herself smiling in front of monuments on her first trip to Holland. When she first arrived at The Hague, she was plucky, generally happy, quick and full of wit and lively spunk, adored by her peers for her workaholic attitude and the way she could sink shots a mile a minute at the bar afterwards. At least her talent for drinking hadn't gone away, but Martine wasn't as sure about the rest of it.

She had achieved no redemption for the Uganda Case, it reached an abrupt end when a misfire on a Australian FA-18 Super-Hornet jet caused the compound to be destroyed, all personnel were killed in the blast that they never saw coming. Unlike the MQ-1 Predator U.A.V. That took the initial pictures, this aircraft was manned, the pilot was questioned, and it all turned out to be a coincidence that the missile hit one of the most ruthless third-world dictators ever to rule. The U.N. wasn't even notified of the event until an hour afterwards. Director Westergaard was still in command of the department, but the Deputy Director had now changed once again, the position was currently filled by a woman known around the building as 'Frieda' from the Law Division, Martine was considered for the post, but after her many cold cases and disappointments she never made the short list. She was slouched over her laptop, resting her chin on the flat palm of her hand, she wore a loose fitting black button-up shirt, her hair was of the same colour and done up in a pocket-sized bun on her head, with two little strings of black hair that fell in perfect symmetry on each side of her face, she had them both tucked behind her ears.

She had been working at a much faster rate than normal, she had turned off her phone and was rapidly typing along to Orgy's 'Opticon' it was the last CD she had put in the player, and when it stopped she knew that there was no more. Her fingers were busy at a report on a wasted case that Westergaard had thrown to her; like a hapless owner would throw a starving dog an already-ravaged bone. Martine interlocked her fingers together and pressed her face into the link, closing her eyes once the song stopped, the mindfulness was rudely halted by the door swinging open. It was Connor. With stress visible on his face, he rustled around on the table in front of her desk, Martine removed her earbuds and flicked her eyebrow up in a questioning manner.

"What? What is it Connor?" She pestered him, and his tone became horribly sorrow "I've been trying to reach you, something happened this morning...in New York" He said with a dash of fear in his voice, Martine's home city, she stood and grabbed her phone "I'm sorry, I had turned off my phone, I was working on a-" She tried to explain but Connor grabbed her wrist "Give me the TV Remote. Now" He demanded, not eager to argue with this side of him, Martine opened one of the desk's draws and found the remote, Connor swiped it from her and mashed his finger into the power button. It was on every channel. Every language. Connor let go of her wrist, and nearly fainted onto the nearest chair, stumbling to sit down once he saw it again on the news.

"Was it...a plane?" Martine struggled to comprehend it, despite the news reports in front of her eyes, Connor confirmed it in a husky breath "Two planes" He said in fear-inspired amazement. With her phone in hand, Martine thought about the people she should call, her parents, her brothers...Tommy. Yet she did neither. This was her new life now, she had joined the U.N. to stop things like this, and despite the best effort she could put in, she wasn't all-seeing.

"This was a mile from our US Headquarters, so the Security Council has declared a state of emergency, until Mr Annan can produce a statement, the emergency will remain and then we'll-" Connor was tongue tied, he spluttered in his own words when he picked up his phone once it buzzed "Another plane...just hit the Pentagon" Connor trembled, Martine's hand shot to her mouth "Oh my god..." She murmured as she saw his body let off a compulsive shudder as he picked up his phone again, punching in numbers, he got up from the chair and paced up and down, letting the phone ring "Dan? Hello, oh my god you're safe...good, yes I love you too" he paused, Martine knew who he was speaking to, he had mentioned a relationship before, but nothing serious.

"Yeah, I've rang my parents they're fine, still on vacation in Toronto, where are you?" He insisted in knowing as he took Martine's hand and giving it a comforting squeeze, he mouthed a couple words and left the room, still speaking to his boyfriend.

Now Martine was alone with the crippling news, her home city was reeling and struggling, she wanted to go back there, to see her family. No matter what they had done to her in the past, this would change everything for everyone, better or worse. Thinking too hard on the matter, Martine cursed to herself and popped open her phone, going down in her contact list, she found one; Tommy. She had left him on bad terms, but her heart overruled her head.

Listening to the rings, one, two, three rings, Martine wanted something, even if it was a 'fuck you' straight down the phone in his loudest and most hate-fuelled yell, she needed to know he was safe. Answer machine, her hand twitched and she hurled the phone at the wall in anguish, it just bounced off the wallpaper and plasterboard and clattered to the floor with an uneventful noise. The news continued, only adding the insult to her injury, how would she get back at the people who did this? Something would have to stop them. By whatever means necessary, someone had to get it done.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: JULY 20th 2014

LOCATION: Alghero, SARDINIA, ITALY

PRECISE LOCATION: MUSEO DIOCESANO

MACCHINA FOTOGRAFICA D'INGRESSO B -19:22:23

The camera placed just at the corner of the entrance of the grand art museum the Museo Diocesano was in a prime viewing spot, here, Samaritan could watch everyone who goes in and comes out, leaving the rest of it's systems running in the background, it liked to survey the cameras to profile everyday civilians and add to it's irrelevant or deviant lists. Accessing another ball-like camera at the other side of the large and medieval-style double doors, the tourists and locals who would enter would be watched from the moment their foot passed the threshold. These types of places with heavy security was where Samaritan thrived.

The entrance was lowered from the platform of the street, with sets of three stairs that would lead into the doors, the marble archway that would lead into the heart of the museum was packed full of people, their words and conversations would get muddled the audio receptors of the cameras, different languages were hard to pick up when they were said at different volumes and speeds, so the careful work of isolating them would have to be done.

Identifying the deviants and starting to catalog them in the background systems was standard operating procedure for Samaritan, the white screens full of different square-shaped camera feeds ran past at lightning speed, along with the auxiliary mandate of taking out the 7 priority targets. The threat's to the systems survival. With the machine's presence diminished, the shutdown of the Northern Lights project had allowed Samaritan to control the relevant numbers, and at a sky-high success rate so far, the ISA and the Office Of Special Counsel had no reason to complain.

Switching to a camera inside the museum, a circular grey and red reticle of a deviant was applied to a male figure in the corner, unlike the other irrelevant civilians, he was disinterested in the artwork and tapestries that hung from the walls. A nanosecond long profiling took place inside Samaritan, his name was Vincent Bianco, an attendant and public affairs organiser for a politician on the Italian jewel coast.

His face matched the one on his profile; a pair of dark bushy eyebrows, a strong nose and a faintly receding hairline, usually wearing a light brown suit; but today he was dressed more casually. His tanned skin had occurred because of his days sat outside in the Italian sun, now wearing a polo-shirt and a pair of floppy shorts more fit for a day at the beach, even his sunglasses was an attempt to blend in due to his recent activities, taking bribes from other political parties, adultery, hijacking funds from his own party, illegally buying stock with a shell corporation.

Then he buried his hand into the back pocket of his shorts, pulling out a small brown package, he advanced towards a security guard at the door. Samaritan rotated the view to see Bianco slip the stocky male guard the package and subsequently be let into the staff's quarters (a second afterwards, the guard was marked as a deviant) Vincent went to the end of the staff's corridor and drew his phone, typing in numbers, Samaritan began a telecom intercept.

"Macallan, it's Vincent, I'm about to make the transfer" Vincent fretted in an Italian-English impersonation, he was never that good in English class at school. The voice in the phone was more callous and spoke with a North American superiority complex "So what's stopping you?" The voice retorted, making Vincent stammer and started nodding despite not saying anything, confirming his own cowardice "I think we've been...compromised" He struggled in saying, it wasn't his noncommittal attitude that convinced him, it was the evidence he and his staffers had found. The bank transfers were being shut down from an outside source, the money vanishing.

"Compromised, how?" The voice beseeched, after a vocal analysis, Samaritan concluded it was the voice of Congressman Peter Macallan Jr. "There's a lot of factors, dispersing funds, our bank contacts going missing, I've checked the numbers, this shouldn't be happening" Bianco hypothesised. The congressman made a disapproving huff, and asked for some more explanation. "I think we're dealing with something beyond our control here, we have to close the business" Vincent groaned out, Samaritan had been reviewing the situation, it confirmed the resolution for the crisis, advancing the man's classification from the deviant's pinpointing signal to an upside-down pulsing red triangle, and called up his profile to change the designation once again.

 **/ PRIORITY TARGET IDENTIFIED**

DESIGNATION: **EVENTUAL THREAT TO SYSTEM**

NAME: BIANCO, VINCENT

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

LOCATION: 40°33′33.26″N 8°18′47.18″E / 40.55924

 **ASSETS EN ROUTE: 00:00:15:12.1**

Soon enough, a fleet of tailgating black SUVs pulled up outside the museum one by one, their windows had been dulled out to the point of not even being visible, the locals backed away when the lead car's back door opened and a pair of chunky and slim black platform ankle-length boots stepped out, they were attached to the grey denim covered legs of a light and thin muscular build, wearing a black sleeveless tactical shirt with bullet casings across her belt, her blonde and brown streaked hair was tied into a bun at the back of her head, her clear and crisp voice could instantly establish a chain of command as a row of around twenty black-suited agents disembarked from the SUVs "Establish a perimeter around the building, cover the exits, no one gets in or out. Go, now" She ordered, the agents ran both ways around the museum like a pack of hunting wolves, the agents remaining were summoned by the blonde woman "You four are with me, run interference while I engage the target" The woman addressed them swiftly "Yes, Ma'am" The agents obeyed at once, following her inside as the pedestrians wondered what was going on when the answer would be beyond their comprehension, it was best that they stayed back and out of affairs and the agents ways.

Once they breached the entrance, her four companions started their mission, one sneaked into the art gallery and pulled the fire alarm, causing a stream of people to flow and flee from the museum's doors, this would seem problematic for any normal agent, as the target could easily hide in the swarm of civilians, but not for Martine. Or as she was known today, Alicia T. Cabrera. Moving into the tapestry display room that had now been completely emptied by the fire alarm scare, a security guard was still there, checking the artwork.

He was bulky and around five-foot-eleven, with a scar under his right eye and a torch in his hand, approaching her, he tried to extend his hand "Where is Vincent Bianco?" She said calmly, the guard flashed a look of confusion at her, and then his sudden realisation was too late as Martine withdrew her SIG-Sauer p220 and fired two close range shots into the guard's shoulder and heart, both shots went entirely through his body as he fell limply to his knees, then onto his face without a word of distress. The kill wasn't entirely necessary; Lambert would have criticised her for it, but an irrelevant dead didn't matter to Samaritan, what's one or two humans dead among 7.270 billion.

Attaching a suppressor to her sidearm, Martine leant her neck to the side, hearing the pop of the joint, she wiped her face of all emotion, wearing her signature scowl, she stopped at a staff lounge, with two exits. "Directions?" She asked to the open air, in clear view of the camera, Samaritan began working behind the scenes, finding floor-plans, multiple camera and street-lamp feeds, linking the WiFi signal to the target's phone, listening to the footsteps of the corridors around her. Martine stood still until a deep mechanical voice spoke into her miniature earpiece

"RIGHT. PRIORITY TARGET AT 14.457 METERS. ELIMINATE PRIORITY TARGET"

"Thank you..." Martine affirmed, she quickened her pace, taking the right door, she was as straight as an arrow when it came to the next door, which was already open, someone had been through here. 5 Meters left, it was now just a couple of feet. Her target was in sight, Vincent was at the end of the hallway, he had heard the fire alarm, but considered the whining noise from the ceiling to be a drill, so only proceeded to a more secure area.

Unfortunately it wasn't secure enough. Martine's steps created a soft clunking sound and an echo on the glazed granite floor. The man at the end of the floor saw the glint of her sidearm and dropped his phone "Please...whatever you want, I can give it to you!" He blubbered, Martine was still closing distance when Samaritan sent an instruction to her earpiece "FIVE-O-CLOCK" The mechanised voice said in monotone phrasing, Martine stopped and turned her arm around to fire in the vicinity that Samaritan described, she fired a suppressed shot, hearing a grunt then a collision with the floor and the clatter of a firearm hitting the ground, Martine cocked her head to the side.

Vincent's astounded face didn't last long as Martine unceremoniously whipped her arm back around and blasted Vincent in the chest without even blinking, he gasped as the breath was driven from his body, collapsing and stumbling to the floor, he coughed with a rasp, his lungs on fire, his heart rushing to fill the blood he was loosing, and the harbinger of some unknown deathly force watching him fade. His last demand came with a final breath "Is it...personal?" He moaned.

"No. It never is" Martine comforted, shooting him again in the chest for confirmation. Vincent's body slumped lazily to the ground, a sea of blood seeping from the wounds, his eyes remained open, as wide as his first payday. She sheathed the pistol in her holster at her lower back, sliding it in sideways, Martine crushed the phone under her boot as she exited the museum, her team of Assets waiting. Samaritan gave them all their Asset numbers above their heads, and updated Martine's completed mandate. Reassigning the blonde woman, new orders had just come in, and eager to perform her duty, she raised her arm and flicked her hand forward in a military signal, and the Assets retreated from the scene.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 11th 2001

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

JCI OFFICE CAM 2 - 15:02:33

More news had come out since the fresh tragedy, another plane had been crashed in a rural town, the efforts of some brave souls trying to prevent another attack and massacre. Connor hadn't come back since his phone call, walking the building in different patterns while speaking on the phone. He just wanted to keep hearing his boyfriend's voice. Westergaard however hadn't sent his regards to her, showing up in her larger office room would have been enough to check on his Junior Chief Investigator, but he did no such thing. Martine then realised how selfish she was being; just because her own family didn't care to reach out doesn't mean that probably the most pressured man in the court right now should be caring about her. However her conviction remained, she had to do something.

Doubting that she'd be put on the Investigation team for this event (she knew that the scale of the attack would bring an instant action) the Director had forgotten about her recently, only tossing a case her way when something needed cleaning up in the office, and not out in the field. Leaving her phone on the carpeted floor, Martine had fled back to her desk. The Pentagon was still smoking, and the President had been evacuated from the location he resided in at the time. The 24/7 coverage on every news channel was keeping Martine informed as she did her own research, comprising a little more understanding of what had happened, she used Connor's NSA knowledge too, or as much she knew from what he had told her. She had never prayed before now, at all. But she could see the appeal of believing in a higher power, of someone that would act as a saviour, if that existed at all, it would be needed today.

Martine had unbuttoned her shirt from the top, only by a couple of buttons to relieve the heat from her bust and chest, and had ripped out the bun to let her onyx-black hair resume it's messy yet strangely ever-kept style. Holding her head in her hands, Martine wondered how the US would ever recover, and then she remembered her growing up in The Bronx, she'd always have to think on her feet, working with what she had and changing to suit the situation, always being persistent and adapting. If the country was anything like her at 12-years-old, they'd bounce back, even perhaps adapting and evolving at this very moment.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

—

OCT 31

2001 — DAY 1

Darkness. The date and year appeared as set on the clock, and it wouldn't change for the next 16.18 hours, so the machine understood. A clicking noise was heard next, followed by a small boot-up like a computer turning on. Static faded and was wiped away to reveal brightness, and a face fiddling with a monitor's webcam.

The room was full of servers with green and red blinking lights, and a lamp just poking into the frame. The most prominent image was a man directly in front of the screen. With mousy black hair and thick circular glasses, his eyes gradually looked back at the webcam.

He was just over middle-age, with a unique facial structure, his cheeks were sharp and lean, his ears were tall and curving upwards, his forehead was high and brimmed with hair, and his eyebrows were thin like streaks of faint brown grass. The emotion came from his eyes, as he tinkered with the webcam, he sat back in his chair, wearing a tailored suit and a checkerboard patterned shirt, the way his mouth moved when talking was strange, but he pronounced words with an outstanding voice, he made a noise of effort, before relinquishing his hold of the webcam.

"There we go. Now, can you see me?" The bespectacled man inquired.

A face-scan commenced, recognising human features and smoothly gliding over them with a grid of analytical data-webs, horizontally and vertically it honed in on certain areas, giving each imperfection a dot before assigning a classification box. The dots blinked twice before a yellow box appeared around the man's head.

Seven miniature rectangles on each of the four sides with a thick corner and a targeting rectangle that would point towards the subjects face, all had already been programmed with different colours prepared also. "Excellent"

The man gave congratulations with a smile, he grinned just as the screen glitched for a moment, the webcam feed wasn't as crisp as expected; but this was just a initial operating test.

"Next question, who am I?" To respond the computer system put a single word beside the box in white text, letting it hover there for the remainder of the interaction 'ADMIN' The Admin chuckled under his breath while leaning back "Very good" He praised, motioning his body forward, The Admin got into the meat of the interaction "Now let's begin-"

The monitor's feed shorted out, glitching The Admin into a different position in his seat, but the time-skip wasn't long enough to be noticeable

"Alice and Bob are stranded in the desert..."


	6. Chapter 6: Lambert

_Author's preface: I don't do this often, but I had couple things I needed to mention. As dedicated followers will notice, yes, I changed the name of the Fic, because I realised that putting 'Person of Interest' before a POI FanFic was a tad redundant and already expected, so consider it corrected. I recently found out (at 00:01 on the 1st of August in the middle of S4E5 Prophets) that after 57 months (close to 5 years) of streaming time, that Netflix has removed Person of Interest from it's library, which is a horrid shame as they never uploaded season 5...and I was in the middle of re-watching the series for the second time. I'm not sure how this is on the US Netflix, but I was quite disappointed and frankly annoyed. Anyway, rant over. I've just appeared in the POI FanFic scene and so far I'm really enjoying it, Asset/029 Origins is only my 2nd Fic, but I'm having far more fun than my last outing. All the other pieces I've read are masterfully done, not sure how mine could ever compare! But I'm certainly trying, but wether I'll succeed is another thing._ _Also while I'm here, could someone update the Character Selection to add people like Martine and Lambert? For pretty decent side-characters who have a good amount of screen-time in seasons 3 and 4/5, they aren't getting as much love as I'd hope, I mean, as good and straight-talking as he is, how many Agent Donnelly FanFics have you seen lately?_ _Best Regards, and on with the journey._ _Alongusername._

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: JULY 24th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC INSTITUTE

FAC MAIN ALPHA SC 1 - 21:13:44

Seven people. Out there in who knows where, how could it be so hard? It was only Two females and the rest were male, their outlier features and faces flickered on the extra-large screen on the darkened wall, three student-like boys, and four members of the elusive 'Team Machine' but from the command centre of Samaritan, they were still unfound, invisible. Out there roaming the world, they couldn't have gone overseas and negate their precious city, so it was a matter of finding the scent.

No paper trail, and the digital findings had gone cold after the Beta's Auxiliary Target slipped away, it had become a desperate and costly search. Technicians in the command centre were working on the various instruments and computers on the shadowed tables, they were all old models, with clunky and thick keypads, yet the technical personnel were silent as they typed in instructions and reviewed the information coming in from Samaritan's core and higher operating systems. Occasionally the entity would send a message through it's gigantic screen, but for now it was peacefully running along the cameras.

Jeremy Lambert was stood at the erected table in the centre of the room, Samaritan's webcam was looking down on his purple-tinted three-piece suit, his blue and gold checked tie and a dark purple and gold pocket square, the freshly tanned skin and his slicked-back brown haircut. He was an atypical spy-type man, conventionally handsome with a charismatic grin and a swaggering stance, currently watching over the building, he had been reserved to be the castellan of the Institute and the operating head of Samaritan's viper.

Circling his head with a reticle that shifted around, in a clockwise motion, the bars going from left to right around his face, the two arrows pointed inwards and the sinister red text abruptly appeared ' **ASSET/401** ' just days ago Lambert had succeeded in his mission to eliminate the New York hacker, he never discovered the code that was foretold, dying from gunshot wounds sat just in front of his PC. Now awaiting further instructions, he tapped his polished Oxford Shoe in a steady rhythm as he heard the door behind him slide and swing open, the lights from the hallways breaking into the control room.

Hard footsteps began getting closer and closer behind him as he turned on his heel to see the female Asset...029. Fresh-faced, she patrolled the technician's workstations, averting her vision from Jeremy, the way she moved was seductive in it's normality, as a technician's eyes lingered on her back when she came from an unknown angle to stand next to Lambert. He had turned back around to avoid her and watch the interfaces change and the cameras switch to an alternate view, but he could still hear the female Assets steps around him, until they stopped, and they stood parallel to each other. She was wearing her black combat jeans and high-heeled boots, and a brown leather biker's jacket, Martine's eyes flicked up and down Lambert's suit, he had seen a new tailor recently, and his hidden holster was outfitted with an extra two pistol magazines, due to the common problem of running out of ammo in the middle of a firefight. How inconvenient for him, Martine chuckled.

"Something funny, Asset?" Lambert called out, his torso and head twisting to meet her, an arrogant expression was growing on his face. "No, not at all. I'm Martine by the way, you can use my name right? We aren't bound by numbers here" She jeered, returning his posture and straight-backed persona, thinking about applying her British accent to further mock the man's native-Sheffield voice. "Not to him" He indicated with a finger to the mammoth television screen inside the wall, that was currently surveying traffic cameras and helicopter feeds, in sped-up time, cataloging the vehicles and pedestrians. "To him, we're all numbers, statistics, or results" He made known, Martine blinked in comprehension "How profound, I just do my job, whoever gives the orders" Her conviction was clearly stated, Lambert knew that she was wronged too many times to count, from her childhood to her former employers, but Samaritan had a much longer dossier on him than her, which was rather telling of their current dynamic.

"Where's Greer? I heard he was in town" She scratched her eyebrow and smoothened her hair with the same hand, as the constant number-crunching and analysis went on around them. Like a typical public relations specialist, Lambert gave a vague answer "He's on other business in the City, being Samaritan's Primary and Admin is a harder job than it seems" not a job that Jeremy would have taken willingly, after consideration he was worked hard enough as Greer's First Lieutenant, in Decima and under Samaritan. Martine was growing interested in the way that the ASI worked, having access to everything, it had turned itself into a god in it's apprehension. In that same way of thinking, whomever it touched, whether Martine or any other Asset, could be given the powers too.

She had already felt this back in Italy, the ability still secretly amazed her, and she yearned to use it every time she was activated, self-restraint had to be considered of course, but the possibilities kept her astounded even now "Well done for Queens, too. But personally I would have-" Martine stopped as the faces of the 7 priority target were being ran in a facial recognition sub-system and she caught a glimpse of them. Jeremy must have noticed it too and linked them to Martine's curious and mesmerised glances at their mugshots "A real pack of characters, aren't they?" He smirked with a scoff.

"Indeed, what progress do we have on them?" Martine wondered, as it was obvious that Samaritan was trying a lot of different tactics to find these people, so maybe her knowledge of the U.N.'s Investigation Department and the way that the Criminal's Court operated gave her an advantage in their ways of searching, she could at least offer her opinion, as it could end up being helpful. "We've issued Missing Persons profiles to Interpol, the FBI and JSOC have been notified of the fugitives and we have several teams searching any lead, but Zachary and Murrow have come back negative almost every time" Jeremy said optimistically but with a hint of disappointment. "Almost?" She crossed and folded her arms, watching Lambert blush "Sightings, misconstrued audio traces, nothing concrete. I believe Casey and the other two tech-monkeys have gone overseas, it's just a theory of mine, but they were non-essential to their overall mission... **her** overall mission"

He raised a finger to the forth person on the list, a female brunette with long cascading and rippling hair, what could only be described as a mocking grin, and a blazing red elimination order under her picture. Her cheeks were dainty like a porcelain doll, her eyes had an otherworldly stare, like she was either high off the most damaging narcotics or she knew something that no one else did. Her skin was a flushed pale, and had no blemishes of any kind, like she was new, just factory-made. "That one. Tell me about her" Martine requested, pointing with a stretched arm to the face above the brunette girl.

An even younger-looking female, an unassumingly attractive face, with wide eyes and straight straw-like hair. Martine had no point of reference for her features, she had seen no-one like her before, so it was a relief to hear Jeremy elaborate "Sameen Shaw, former ISA assassin and relevant number operator, Marine, doctor and current member of our priority-target-gang" He said dryly, and upon hearing the conversation of the two Assets grow, Samaritan rolled up the pictures of the targets, along with the orders to eliminate them. Using the security footage of Shaw as evidence, Martine watched the woman shoot wounded men in parks, blast bomb-makers though walls with silenced firearms, kill other government agents in retaliation and squat on rooftops with long-barrelled sniper rifles.

In a twisted and macabre way of thinking, Martine felt connected to her, both of them were betrayed by the workforce they dedicated themselves too, and had now found solace with a new overseer, something that would guide them and give them a purpose, and more importantly give them a job. It was a shame that they found themselves on opposite sides of the conflict, Martine may one day have to turn her gun on this Sameen, but she knew that she couldn't hesitate to achieve her goal, whatever the odds were when she began a mission; Martine made sure they'd change in her favour. Now she paid attention to the other outliers, in them she could see the reversal of her own team, the burley silver-haired man with a face half covered in stubble seemed like a more gruff and beaten version of Lambert, the bespectacled shrew of a human had wisdom and experience in his face, he had been on the path with these machines since the beginning; much like Greer.

In the females, Martine saw only herself; a vague and ambiguous history, up for interpretation by the people who now knew them, seen by the merciless opponent as a fallen angel, combat ready at a second's notice, with changing strategies, they'd either be the first or last to die. The suited lieutenant to her left was still viewing the interface when it rippled an alert onto the gigantic television screen.

SECONDARY OPERATIONS - AUXILIARY MANDATE

ACTIVE THREAT

-THREAT TO SYSTEM SURVIVAL

Lambert scrambled to the nearest technician at one of the monitors, speaking in a hushed tone about finding the target and if it could be confirmed to be one of the seven, doubting that heavily, Martine remained vigilant at the middle table in a remarkably casual stance, keeping her arms crossed and her hips leaning to one side, suddenly when a profile was brought up on the screen and a surveillance feed of a Japanese woman appeared and began to play, dressed in a flower-pink dress and holding a handbag at what looked like an airport, then with a technological warble and whirring sound, Samaritan began listing a set of helpful attributes.

 **/ TARGET**

NAME: AKIYAMA, SARA S.

LOCATION: OKINAWA, JAPAN

 **PROJECTION** : ACTIVE THREAT

 **CONCLUSION** : ELIMINATE

The target's face was bright, and smiling in the profile picture, taken from a website where she featured as a guest of someone's wedding. Jeremy raised his voice to speak to Samaritan itself, as a single red triangle appeared, and a straight black line above it on a sea of white. "Who is to be dispatched to...remove...this target?" He wondered, then the ASI started to ponder, as the line and triangle dissolved and three dots replaced it and began to flash for a minute, Lambert pushed out his chest with a breath, heaving in anticipation. After the mission at Queens his boss had gone silent, only giving him the commands to return to the Institute and watch over the main link to Samaritan; the gargantuan television screen, like that was the only way it could communicate. The intelligence could access any phone, TV or database in the world and it was hiding out in a mental asylum? Jeremy touched the back of his neck tenderly, flattening his hand on the place where his hair stopped growing. Samaritan's interface made a crinkling noise as letters and text decoded itself in front of them.

 **_ASSET/029**

"Looks like you're due for another holiday, Martine" Jeremy's face twisted into a jealous and scornful sneer at Martine with his sarcastically witty words, but the woman was already in her way out, now gently touching her earpiece with her index finger, the earpiece she had been wearing this whole time. A high-pitched beep was heard in her ear (the familiar and pleasurable sound of her being activated into 'God Mode') until the same deep and emotionally ruthless mechanised tone instructed her "LAGUARDIA AIRPORT. FLIGHT 64D. ALIAS...FIORE, ISSABELLA M. PASSPORT PICKUP AT 40.7966° NORTH, 73.8245° WEST" Martine didn't even reply, only swivelling her head to the side once she exited the room and out in the yellow-stained hallway.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 24th 2004

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

CAM C - 14:39:08

Lucas neatly signed his report at the bottom of the page in his messy handwriting, scribbling down his name and applying a paper clip to the sizeable dossier, he stood up from his antique wooden chair to find a stapler, he had to finish this latest report for Martine, he hated to see her disappointed, the way she'd sigh, the inflection of her speech when he'd blurt out excuses. She had become more forlorn of late, tired and crestfallen, often not showing up for meetings and having constantly red and tearful eyes.

Lucas wasn't the best judge of people, but even he could see that Martine was in a rut, her workmate Connor had been promoted and transferred to the US Headquarters in New York a year after the 9/11 Attacks, Martine herself had transitioned into the International Criminal Court's Investigation Department. But Lucas still missed Connor, he didn't even know if they said goodbye. Grabbing a hot-pink stapler from his coworkers desk and roughly pushing his hand to eject a metal staple through the clean white papers, he dusted the brown file before sliding his findings inside. Sealing up the file and brushing his sky-blue buttoned shirt, Lucas put the folder and file under his arm, tucking it beneath his armpit, he grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open. Going out in the corridor, it was nowhere near as busy as it normally was, the amount of emergency transfers and current councils had taken up much of the staff's time. The involvement of the E.U. And other national governments pitching in too, it had been muddling the playing field and adding far more cooks than was needed to keep the pot. Lucas exited his office and took off down the right-hand corridor, the silence was awkward to him, between Martine's constant woebegone emotions and the loss of half his Staffer Office, it was hard to think positively as he often did.

The coruscant-white lining of the newly painted walls was a loud shout to his eyes, the way he walked had changed too, he wasn't as light-footed, skipping across the hallway was a thing of the past. Witnessing the emptiness of the corridor made Lucas realise how much 9/11 had changed things, it wouldn't be forgotten anytime soon, he had known about rumours that the NSA was planning some anti-terror operation in the wake of the National Security advisor to the President giving a speech to the U.N. and the 9/11 Commission. Passing a pair of blue-overall wearing window cleaners, he noticed that the printer at the corner of the hall had been turned off, strange, it was normally always on at this time when the Director or any other official had to print out a debriefing packet or something of that nature.

Despite usually being able to find Martine wandering the halls, chasing some lead to a case of arguing with a peer (she was known for causing a scene in a corridor, full of conviction and that rebellious loyalty) But he didn't see either. Trying to remember what office she worked in, or even what building she was currently staying in, Lucas rounded the corner and nearly bumped into a female figure, his workmate and fellow Staffer, Karen, the redhead made a grunt of contact and then stepped out his way, Lucas grumbled an apology and then, in quick thinking, he placed his hand on Karen's shoulder. The much older woman brushed him away and went to address him, but he was quicker as his tongue flicked out "Have you seen Martine?" He panted. Karen was sympathetic to him, shrugging as she spoke.

"Try checking her office? You're on the right track, it's just down there, room nineteen" The woman said, her rotting teeth grating against each other in a hapless grin, making Lucas cringe once he turned his back to her. Office nineteen, he could have sworn it was a different room last time he checked, since his last report, thinking honestly, he didn't think that he had ever seen inside Martine's office. She kept her work private to most, even her real name had been forgotten by many, the one-word nickname had stuck permanently. Fortunately, the door to office nineteen wasn't that far down, and it didn't bear her name on the plaque, too easy. So Lucas knocked, precisely three times.

JCI B OFFICE CAM 4 - 14:42:51

A rectangular camera in the corner of the room was pointed in the general area of Martine and her desk, with a laptop in front of her, she was busy working with another research project. The change of tact that came with the new job was refreshing and new to her, granted it had only happened in the past two years, a welcome difference to what had been a breakneck career, riding at her highest only to come down with whiplash.

Three knocks and Martine still hadn't gotten familiar with working in what would have been her reception and meeting area, if she had kept the office in the court of justice's Investigation halls, she had still kept her rank and position, staring up to the ceiling, she breathed a short sigh and gave a shout for the stranger to enter. It was Delaney, still as green as he was four years ago, and still treating her as his superior. He was wearing some brown linen trousers, and a casually soft cotton shirt. His shoes were unseeable from her angle behind the desk, but they were no doubt some other formal footwear, he liked to contrast between the nerd-motif and his frequent and eccentrically coloured suits. Martine however was still black of hair (her penchant for dying it hadn't come on lately) and her dark grey blazer and black v-neck shirt were standard, trying to imitate the 'no-bullshit business woman' but so far, she had been achieving it long before she went into a new department. Her pair of trusty stilettos and a respectably short black skirt completed the outfit, crossing her legs once Lucas entered, the last thing she wanted was to go all 'Basic Instinct' on him.

He came into the room and shut the door politely, placing the file on the Oakwood desk. "This is the finished file for the Catalan Case, turned out it wasn't the CNI at all, it was a rogue Homeland Security Agent who was pocketing information for the-" He stammered, but Martine shut him up quickly by holding out a straight hand "Just...let me read the file, I'll get back to you in the morning" She didn't want to scold him, or waste her own time by reading it now, as for once, it looked like more than two-thousand words.

Lucas understood and ruffled his short haircut, his voice was calm and well-mannered now, as he offered condolences and apologies, what for? Martine wondered, he wasn't late, nor was his classification on the document wrong as it often was, maybe he was just being sympathetic to Martine's shift change and her obvious lack of sleep. "Of course, whenever you can get around too it" Lucas backed up to the door, a little flash of 'I'm offended right now' appeared in his eyes "Hey, Lucas I didn't mean to be ru-" Too late. He was gone and the door shut just as neatly as it opened.

When Martine turned back to her laptop, something had changed. All her tabs had been shutdown and a single browser window was open, the colour was an acidic green as a row of information appeared.

'Opening IRC Chat IP Port 85 on ...

User anonymous' Martine went to the small 'x' in the corner to shutdown what must have been a glitch, until a green coloured message faded into view

USER1: GOOD AFTERNOON.

USER1: PLEASE DON'T ATTEMPT TO CALL FOR HELP, OR CONTACT ANYONE OUTSIDE THIS WINDOW. YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.

The camera. Martine turned her head to give it a lethal glare, her phone was tempting, but she didn't know the consequences yet, whatever prank this was, for now she'd play along.

USER2: WHO ARE YOU? (They'd never answer honestly, and to be expected, they didn't)

USER1: FOR NOW, YOU MAY CALL ME D-CRYPT. I WANT TO HELP YOU.

USER2:WHY?

USER1: MY EMPLOYERS HATE TO SEE TALENT GO TO WASTE. ALLOW ME TO GIVE YOU SOME INCENTIVE...AND PROOF OF WORTH.

USER2: WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

USER1: NARAZOV TARASOVICH "VENATOR" AND GEORGIA S. NEWPORT.

USER2: WHO ARE THOSE PEOPLE?

USER1: SUGGEST YOU FIND OUT, SOON.

USER1: WE WILL SPEAK AGAIN. MARTINE.

 **[CONNECTION TERMINATED]**


	7. Chapter 7: Venator

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: APRIL 3rd 1986

LOCATION: The Bronx, NEW YORK CITY, USA

POST 5 - 15:29:03

It felt like hours had passed since the young blonde girl appeared scarred on her best friends doorstep, she had watched things like this in cracks in a movie theatre, the injured lover returning to her beloved's abode after a near-cataclysmic emotional experience. At Tommy's doorstep, her shoes were rimmed in brown dirt, and her school uniform had been bloodied and had thick mud staining her tights and skirt.

His house was only one floor with a grey slate-roof and cobbled brickwork walls of many colours from maroon an off-orange. The boy had appeared from inside the house and softly stepped towards the blonde girl, his luminous blue eyes immediately consoled her, he didn't have to do much to make her feel better. They had knew each other for a long time, both around twelve years old now, their bond was as strong as ever.

Both living in The Bronx, kids like them had to stick together, both were outsiders, disruptive and adventurous, but when they were together in such silent situations...it was nothing but careful words and tender tones. Tommy didn't want to invite her inside, but he felt that he had too because the cold outside wasn't a place for her open wounds and dirty face, she protested, but he insisted and pushed the door open, leading her inside, Tommy just hoped that his parents weren't listening, or he would have quite the explanation to come up with.

"I don't know about this, Tommy" The blonde girl cautioned, but when he said her name in reply, his voice was almost a whisper, in a caring gesture, he took her to the bathroom. It was floored with cracked white tiles, leaving the dark stone foundations underneath. The sink was small and had only one tap, and a already shattered mirror, which Tommy explained was the fault of his father.

He got a towel from a rack in the corner and touched her cheek lightly with it, trying to get rid of the dust and dirt that had been kicked into her face. "I'm sorry, I was looking for someone I trusted, you were my first call" She lamented, her cool exterior caught up in his presence so close to her. Tommy nodded thoughtfully and flicked some stray hairs off her forehead with the towel, he didn't have any medical training, but his mother working as a part-time night nurse did give him a small slice of insight. After cleaning her face, he inspected the cut across her hand, it didn't cut too deep, and was already scabbing over, so Tommy ran it under some clean water again, taking the underside of her hand and moving it mindfully to the bottom of the tap.

"Shouldn't you be at school?" He noted, to the girl's eyebrow raise.

"Shouldn't **you**?" She was right, of course she was, Tommy guessed that they were off school for the same reason, so he didn't press the issue further, and ignored her counter question.

He instead shifted the encounter to the means of which the blonde girl got to his residence "How did you get here? Wait, more importantly, how did you figure out where I lived?" He contemplated, his ears spiking up when he heard his father stumble from the couch into the kitchen, grumbling a yell to his wife.

"I'm a good listener, I had it narrowed down to two places" She recalled, but Tommy knew exactly what she was talking about "You went to that East apartment block, didn't you?" He rounded on the truth as she sheepishly agreed.

He then admitted that that's where his cousin (who was recently married) was living, so she wasn't completely wrong. Tommy went back to the bathroom door and closed it as silently as possible and then grabbed the lock-shutter and pushed it down, fixing the golden and rusted latch on the creaking wooden door, it would give them some time before Tommy's parents noticed anything. He could still hear his distracted father rattle the cabinets looking for another snack, it shook the house as his mother was busy making beds in Tommy's room. He walked back around and sat in the rim of the bath, his saggy pyjamas now sheathing his feet, the blonde girl closed the toilet lid and perched herself on top of it.

"You've bruised your leg, too" He prodded at her, now that he could see it better, it was an angry blotch on the top of her thigh, growing in a putrid green and yellow colour with flecks of purple. She wasn't in the mood to talk about it and to anyone else she would have either walked away or struck back verbally, but Tommy deserved the truth. "Before I left school...I had a fight...with Madeline" when she uttered the name, the boy across from her twitched. Madeline was the resident bully and tormentor of the neighbourhood, she already had a criminal record at seventeen and had a famously short temper with people.

Last time Tommy saw Madeline she was muscled like a twenty year old man with a tattoo on her right arm (however meaningful, Tommy questioned it's relevance) her ears decorated in piercings and her hair was short and curving up in a dark brown quiff. They had each met the strong adversary before, on separate occasions she was responsible for nearly drowning Tommy and throwing the blonde girl down a dyke and into the sewers.

Running around hurting whoever she liked had her in police custody within a month, apparently she was already serving parole from a juvenile detention centre and now had the cause to go straight back into it. He knew that some people just wanted to cause irrelevant violence for their own sakes or sick amusement; and he longed for a time when that could stop. The boy rubbed his hands together to prevent them from sweating, as he himself had more run-ins with the bully, which had never ended in his triumph. He had to console her, just as she did for him more times than he could remember.

It was a relationship of equality, she'd come to him for help, and he'd come to her for a person he could trust. But in this case it was the other way around. Unclear as to if she'd started it or not, Tommy now tried to figure that out "So...how did it start?" He opened, his left leg swaying from side to side as a coping mechanism. She was hesitant at first, but the trust they shared soon came through when the blonde girl looked back up at him like a fawn in the summer, with sweet eyes and a cough to clear her throat, she began the story...

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: DECEMBER 2nd 2000

LOCATION: Chicago, ILLINOIS, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: CONSULATE GENERAL OF SOUTH AFRICA

GARAGE 3 CAM E - 23:54:09

The sliding glass doors of the walkway into the consulate garage opened swiftly, and a man passed in-between them with the upmost haste, he noticed the emptiness of the garage at this time, he had been staying late, trying to finish a correspondence with a contact before the meeting was cut short.

The garage was hauntingly wide, and long, which made the absence of vehicles or people even more distressing. A few more steps, and he would reach the safety of his black-out Lincoln Sedan. Metal and stone infused pillars held the garage up, as yellow paint indicated parking spaces, and white stripes showed places to walk. Littered with drink cans and paper folders, the garage hadn't been cleaned, it was normally the last place the cleaners would think of, three huge and expansive garages, they'd start with the higher-payed officials parking spaces first, typical. Which left this one hopelessly abandoned. The man was carrying a blue crinkled briefcase that was bulging full of documents such as papers and laminated files that hung out the sides.

Wearing a pinstripe royal blue suit with a pristine silver tie, his face was timid and shy, he kept his mouth shut in a thin straight line, along with a narrow nose and slim eyebrows, no one would have suspected the real reason he was here. About to make his getaway from the embassy, a buzzing in his cream overcoat's pocket drew him to his phone. Conversing as the man strides towards his car, he rustled into his second overcoat pocket and pulled out his car keys, unlocking the vehicle from a distance, his eyes met the blocky security camera on the wall. "A few at Maryland know about the photos, but whoever hacked us left at the wrong time, I'm having my people work on tracking them down now"

He said urgently, his voice was shallow with a wavy Asian accent, and his eyes were a dull mud-brown, all ingredients to create a perfect espionage agent. The voice on the other end showed a degree of doubt in his claims "No, I don't think it was the Kremlin, what would they need with U.A.V. Photos? I'm guessing it was some hired hacker, probably former NSA, how else would they know how to use our codes if they weren't one of us"

He suggested as he got closer to the car, passing the camera on the wall and the exit gate, which had now been shut due to the lateness of the time. Getting up to the driver's door of his Sedan, he wrenched the door open with his two free fingers and then stepped inside awkwardly.

"Yes Sir, I'll find out who's responsible" He appeased, trying to smoothen things over already, before he had even started his work. Shutting the door of the car he finished the conversation with a sigh and a last remark "Of course, you can count on me" The man promised.

Letting out an exhausted breath, he went back to his car keys, about to start the engine and ignition.

Until a shadow uncurled from his backseat, like it was never there, the intruder was dressed like a commando, he was an older Caucasian male, with a broken nose, a thick layer of stubble and grey-streaked black hair. His clothes consisted of a tactical shirt, a black leather trench-coat with shoulder pads and a popped-out collar, and black tactical combat trousers, that held a wealth of pockets.

"Hard day at work? I tracked you from Fort Meade, surely you didn't think in a world where you're surveillance follows everyone, that no one follows you" The intruder said irritably, speaking with Russian phrasing, his accent was tough and uncompromising to listen to. He was sitting in the middle of the car's row of back seats, his boot pressed up against the partition between the passenger and driver's chairs.

"You did this?" The man asked suspiciously, staring at the felon's chilling blue eyes in the overhead rear-view mirror.

"The U.N. exposed you, it was Decima that did the heavy lifting, I just sat back and took orders" The grizzled man snarled, but his hostage wasn't about to go limp now, he gestured forward with both hands, as if to say 'there's nothing I can do' before chuckling "Are you insane? You don't expect-"

The suited man couldn't even finish as the cold tip of a Makarov PM pistol touched the back of his head, it wasn't suppressed, so this criminal had something to loose.

He was smart, too, as the suited man noticed there was no obvious cameras around his car. "You play dirty. That's how you defeat a stronger opponent. You strike hard and fast in a place they'd never expect. Now give me the Flash-Drive" Said the grizzled man in a harsh rattle, he wanted the photos from the U.A.V. over Africa, the evidence that could have put Obanno away. Reports had come in that the U.N. denied any involvement in Obanno's regime and had officially denied taking action because of the regime leader's work with government officials.

Casually, the besuited man placed his hand on the dashboard as he felt the back of his head being pushed down by the gun, he had to offer some form of consequence if the man behind him were to open up with more information (he found that strategy hard to believe, but at least he could get the mysterious stranger to keep talking) "You aren't invisible, you know. If you've left a trace, even a shred of data, a single online funds transfer, the NSA will find it and the ISA will find **you** "

"I'll take my chances, the Flash-Drive. I won't ask a third time" The stranger threatened, pressing the gun into the man's head, there was no escape now.

So reluctantly, the besuited man conceded and raised his left hand to show no sign of hostility as his right hand delved into his blazer's breast pocket to pull out a short USB-stick with the logo of the National Security Agency. Leaning to his assailant to hand him the drive, he swallowed hard as he saw the felon cock the hammer of the gun back as he picked up the Flash-Drive. "It won't do you much good anyway, I split the info at Fort Meade, that's only half the story" The suited man let go of his ace card in a lasting effort to survive, but the grizzled man had a tactic for that too

"Strange. Agent Bissell said the exact same" He took an aggressive sniff of the air "Mr Tseng, you have succeeded greatly. Thank you" Tarasovich complimented, storing the file in his left fist for now.

"Don't. I just killed you" Tseng returned, snaking his head around to look the man in the eyes, knowing that he would be hunted down for this incident.

"Well...then we're even" Tarasovich leant back and straightened his arm, pointing the gun to Tseng's skull.

Two flashes of light shot through the car, as the muffled sound of gunshots lit up the empty garage.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 24th 2004

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

CAM C - 16:15:42

After a fatal failure of a search into the name D-Crypt, it appeared to be nothing more that lame joke.

But the those two names the shadow contact provided still itched at her, were they even real? Without time to consider, she opened up the Criminal Court's intranet, searching their names. Nothing. No results at all, was she given aliases? Or some form of double-agent covers? The prospect of either was worrying, she had to pursue this. The circumstances of her transfer may have took her into this, they were far too specific to be an accident, so now Martine had to be sure.

Not given her rank for nothing, she'd have to do some legitimate investigation. Just like when she first arrived, the cases in Kazan and Shumen, all wonderful successes, where she earned the esteem and the admiration of her peers. Gathering thoughts for a minute, there was a lot of ways to operate in this new case, firstly, it would have to be off the books, a leading investigator of the U.N. receiving anonymous messages of questionable reliability?

It would be stupid to log this in a case report. She'd kept the chat window open on her laptop, just in case the connection was resumed and D-Crypt came back online under the guise of 'User1' she had to get a little more context. For that, her hand lingered and caressed her phone, Connor.

His post-NSA skills had helped her before, and it was the only other measure she could think of. Massaging her temples with both hands, peer pressuring herself into getting answers, Martine got to her Motorola handset with little doubt, cursing under her breath, she clicked to the contacts and found Connor's number, hopefully it hadn't changed it since they last knew each other, breathing hard, Martine reviewed her relationship with her former friend, they hadn't separated on bad terms like the larger percentage of the people she knew, so overall he'd have no reason to refuse. The change in time from where he worked to The Hague was a difference of six hours, but as long as Connor's sleeping patterns hadn't changed either, he'd be wide awake in New York by now.

The phone rang once, then a groggy voice answered on the other end of the line "Connor Herring, hello?" He announced with part of a yawn, the backfire from the call was catastrophic, he was in some server room or computer-hub perhaps, in the middle of the morning. He had changed his phone, but the number remained the same, Martine figured from his reaction, not even calling her by her nickname or real name, if he knew it. "Connor? Hey, it's Mar-" she began, but in a flash of nostalgia the man's voice jumped to a high pitch "Martine?! Wha-what are you calling for?" He composed himself, remembering her dainty and dinted cheekbones, her cascading black hair and the styles it'd shift into day after day, the way she'd smile at him in a full and friendly manner, how she would gesture and carry herself around a room.

When the memories stopped flooding back, he had to deflect the preying virgins of his workspace the moment he said a woman's name, and pardoned her for a second when he got outside his joint-office.

By then Martine had developed a lie to feed him, a simple reason to why she needed research on those two names "I've been working on a case, and I think I've got a lead...but my intranet at The Hague has come up blank, can you help me out here Connor? Just this once and I won't bother you again" She pleaded, trying to work in her most confident inflections, and thinking on what she'd say to him next.

Not having heard from Connor in about nine months since his transfer, she was apprehensive about how he'd react to her strange and sudden Plea. "Of course I can! Just gimme a minute and I can log onto a secure server" Connor proclaimed, panting as he raced into a different room and slammed down in a chair, typing a passcode to a computer, he used the usual Tor Union Router and then into a far more secure network, inputting codes and passwords at various safeguards and firewalls he finally got access to the NSA's Person Of Interest databank. Catching his breath, he touched the phone back to his ear "I'm in. What have you got for me?" Connor requested, in a whisper-like tone. Martine was surprised at how fast he found the means of locating her suspects, she had already memorised the names in preparation, and was quick to list them to him.

"Nazarov Tarasovich, also known as The Venator, and Georgia S Newport, who may be an accomplice but I'm not sure yet" she didn't get a response from Connor straight away, as she heard the delicate touching of keypads and space-bars. She wasn't sure if her mysterious contact was still watching over her from the many cameras at each corner...and even the one on her...laptop. They weren't watching from the camera feeds. Grabbing a post-it note from the draw of her desk, she attached it hastily to the top rim of her laptop, covering the built-in camera webcam. There, for the moment she was unseen. "What have you got Connor?" Martine urgently emitted with a release of tension.

"Nazarov Tarasovich, known under his FSB name of Venator, former Russian military, wanted for 26 counts of murder in the first degree, 14 of those were related to the assassination of public figures, another 12 in the second degree, and chased by all the major intelligence communities. Currently...working as a killer-for-hire, a mercenary" Connor informed her, which only made her more suspicious.

Obanno? The Russian could be a ghost of his organisation, which had now been connected to a conspiracy in the US Congress as well as the Australian Military, thanks to an emergency meeting by Director Westergaard.

A lot of people were in demand for hired guns theses days, so Obanno was a long-shot, but to Martine there was no other connection, she always wanted justice for that case, he had gotten away with too many atrocities to be let go on some technicality. Connor then gave some context on Venator's companion.

"Georgia Selena Newport, born 1985 in Surrey, England. Known hacker and wanted by the DOD and the GCHQ's Investigatory Powers for 18 cases of cybercrime and criminal vandalism, but she was only uncovered when her signature code was backtracked to a warehouse in Natal, Brazil. The NSA's file believes that the trace was planted, but she has since appeared using the same code in London, Edmonton and Stuttgart" Connor divulged, it was a wide place to start.

Martine thanked him for the assist and he wished her good luck and she had been generally reciprocal, then they hung up. Now it was Martine all on her own, her first plan was to look into the many locations and crimes that Connor provided, along with bringing up old information like the names of the four previous Mercenaries that were found working with the Ugandan regime.

The U.A.V. Photos too, she went to her presentation that should have convinced the Director, opening it up, she found a error message 'external file retrieval error' it read in damaging black lettering. Missing? It had only been four years, so that was unlikely, foul play? It became more probable as Martine sat back in her chair, an expression of deep contemplation on her face, she was opening a can of worms here, and she didn't think it that she could close it in a hurry.

As Samaritan watched Martine through the corner cameras on her laptop in her office in real-time (though in it's archived footage function) it assigned her a new designation at that second, something to keep her under should it come back to view her preliminary stages again. As it's circle enclosed around her head, the bars shifted and twisted around as the interfaces logged the year and date, and a two-word overhead display flickered and froze in it's view.

 **_POTENTIAL ASSET_**


	8. Chapter 8: Control

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: JULY 26th 2014

LOCATION: Naha, OKINAWA, JAPAN

PRECISE LOCATION: 那覇空港

ランディングストリップ12カメラ2 - 02:25:03

Like a giant steel bird, the Boeing 727 swooped under the clouds as it began a descent into the runway, carving down the floating white masses and gliding to the strip of road. The plane was coming in low, rushing toward a runway that seemed almost unreachable, hemmed in by offices and hotels and roads and a circular ground level parking lot. There was a control tower, ugly and misshapen, and a low-rise terminal made of concrete and glass.

Two more planes, already on the ground, were surrounded by service trucks. There was a jolt as the back wheels came into contact with the tarmac. The captain announced the destination and the arrival time in a monotone voice to the jet lagged passengers through the static-filled intercom. Most were tourists from New York, with Japanese memorabilia on their shirts and hats, and with a wealth of baggage like backpacks and handbags stuffing the overhead compartments of the plane. The faceless passengers all melded into one another, they were replaceable, forgettable, by any standard it was a perfect place to hide.

That was exactly the point as the long and monolithic staircase was attached to the plane's opening side-door. The tourists and returning businessmen trooped off the aircraft in single file, all towards the baggage claim and the conveyer belt that would distribute their heavier luggage.

The flashing green and orange lights in cone-form on the runway created a misty brightness in the early morning fog, the people became ghouls, whispers and faint silhouettes, their clothes now as opaque as their faces. In the terminal, the atmosphere had changed to a busy air, there were plasma screens of arrival and departure times on the wall of the airport lobby and along the hallways, people of all age and race were lined up at the check in desk with suitcases and baggage, and at the arrival lounge there was a curious mixture of bored and excited people. Some looked like they were waiting for a bus, others like they were children waiting for Christmas itself while some lounged on the low comfy brown chairs and others bounced on their toes in anticipation. Most of these people walked in a boring and slow line, like an automated system that would move one piston at a time, they were busily pulling suitcases along the floor, hauling towards the opening glass doors and the darkened car park.

The filling and calm music that was piped across the terminal wasn't at all to Martine's taste as she strutted into the entrance zone. She had come from the plane completely unnoticed under her new identity of an undercover Italian Interpol Agent, dressed in a long black woollen overcoat that was draped over her shoulders, underneath she wore a grey blazer and a mainly white dress-shirt with a black collar and black cuffs, which she had tucked out of her blazer. Issabella (the first name of her newfound alias) had no extra suitcase or handbag, only carrying the essentials for her mission; her phone, the documents needed to pass the checkpoints at the New York airport, and a gun.

Sneaking the firearm through was done with a little help from Samaritan's inside men, and answering 'business' to the classic question got her to show the forged yet legitimate business visa and her papers checked out right away. Awake for every minute of the 18 hours flight, Martine was still feeling as active as when she met Lambert at the institute. Not sure how to think about him though, the blonde woman knew that he was effective when activated, but he certainly preferred the normal human methods, not using Samaritan to it's full extent, he went into most missions with only a sidearm and his attitude...whatever the outcome would be.

Without a connection to her Interpol-regulation wired earpiece and phone on the plane, it was an assuring feeling to see the red triangle fade into view on her handset. With a single white line above it, the interface was dormant for now, until Martine spoke into the open air. It was seen as odd as the woman spoke to no one in particular in the middle of a crowded airport arrival terminal, but there was so much uplifting music and white-noise of the many passing conversations that her audio could be isolated by Samaritan and it could reply accordingly.

"Visual update on target" She specified, and within a nanosecond, an image materialised on her phone's screen.

A Japanese woman with bleach white hair cut short into a degree of sharp shapes, a pair of emerald green eyes and a face for publicity, a wide open chin and lips coated in a shimmering blue lipstick. The picture was taken from a traffic-camera outside the Loisir Spa Tower And Hotel, not far from the airport. An infiltration? She couldn't just go in guns blazing, from the zoomed-out picture, she had protection, some form of private detail watching her back, a squadron of blue-suited men flanked behind her as she exited the car and Samaritan flashed a rapid succession of pictures. The glass-walled terminal wasn't getting any smaller, so Martine advanced towards the exit and the parking lots, coming up with a tactic on her way, her hair had been done into a single ponytail and it had been hanging loosely from her head, swaying and bouncing whenever she moved. Confidently, Martine got outside into the early morning cold, where a fast breeze nearly rocked over a sleeping old man and pushed down a traffic cone.

The exit of the terminal was covered by a triangular platform held up by four metal rods, a row of neon orange cones created a zone that was safe to walk and took visitors to a bus station and the more complex ascending parking lots in semicircular buildings.

Issabella posed another question to Samaritan "Directions to target?" She flicked her eyes both left and right, as a line of Taxis remained just outside the airport, and she had no car to speak of. After breaking into a Japanese satellite's systems, and using a cross-referencing algorithm to predict the speed and time of the local traffic, Samaritan returned into her ear with instructions "LEFT. TARGET LOCATED AT GROUND FLOOR. VEHICLE AVAILABLE" Simple enough, Samaritan didn't come with it's own vehicle renting service, at least for now it didn't, so civilian travel would be needed to keep up appearances. As Martine walked towards the nearest taxi, her heeled shoes making distinct noises on the concrete, she tapped on the window of the cab twice and stepped inside.

Removing her thick coat, she dropped it on the stained red leather seat beside her "Where to, Miss?" The cabbie greeted her, in English but with a Japanese dirge, he coiled his head to the slot in the plexiglass separation-slide, Issabella smiled sweetly "Loisir Hotel, please" Fluttering her eyelashes, she was going to speak in her near-fluent Japanese, but she wasn't as good as she thought, conversational at best, so for now her better judgement prevailed and she was en-route to the target and her destination.

グラウンドフロアロビーカム9 - 02:32:55

Sending a final career ending message to a member of the company's board, Sara was now alone.

She had been working at Mr Khan's tech company Castellum Inc for over three years as a trusted data security advisor, but she had quit to pursue a trail that leave her on the cusp of something much greater. Watching the green line slide to the other end of the screen, she knew that she could never go back there now.

The hotel was just cleaned and the pool area where Sara sat was as empty as a morgue. Only her private security would suffer to be around her at this hour. She had arrived from the company's base in New York nearly three days ago when she found code that could expose the internal hardware of the online security Castellum was selling. Sat under tent-like structures just outside the perimeter of the pool, she spun a pen in her fingers, calculating her next move, she had moved back to Japan for amnesty in case any American authority should pursue her. But there was a slim chance of that, for a very private person, escaping the states was easy, she had good relations with the manager of this hotel so was given the entire night and morning since she landed to barricade herself in and come up with a plan.

Sara had gone for a oriental style to fit in with the upper-classes of Japan, a kimono made of gold and pink light fabrics, weaved with a shining orange and jewels across the arms and cuffs. Having changed from the dress she arrived in as soon as she landed, it was best to keep a low profile and stay out of sight for now, so taking refuge in a hotel's pool lobby was a good idea as her security team told her. The crystal waters were calmly resting and dazzling when the lamps on the marble rim of the pool touched the liquid.

The private group of bodyguards Sara had hired were a team of five men, all stony-faced jocks, spread out across the lobby and constantly reporting in with each other and their Captain, a former marine known as Constantine. "Ms Akiyama, are you sure you don't need to rest? It's been a long flight, and we'd be better served protecting a single room, other than this open plaza if you don't mind my saying so" Constantine warned her, keeping his hands behind his back as he respectfully stood closer to the table Sara sat near. He had a spiked head of ginger hair, with a faded yet long scar that ran from his neckline to the corner of his lips.

"Please, you shouldn't worry Mr Constantine, I'll be fine, we just need to wait a little longer" Sara cajoled him, watching him adjust the silver origami-dove pin that adorned his suit jacket while moving back to his position behind her. The steady noise of the water's peaceful sloshing did little to settle Sara's concentration. The company's codes were being used and hijacked by someone, or something, and she had to find out what it was by herself, as the board had remained negligent on the matter, and with Mr Khan engaged overseas, Sara was avenging her own cause.

In the entrance camera to the hotel, a yellow and red-striped taxi pulled up and stopped just at the ascending steps. It's dingy windows obscured the two people inside, but Samaritan saw them both, and gave each an emblem, recognising it's Assets both driving and in the back seats, the intelligence was fast enough to catalog them.

 **ASSET/029_**

 **ASSET/2053**

Martine was prepared to strike the cabbie in the back of the head with a punch, knocking him out cold, until he stared at the mirror and locked eyes with her "Good luck, Miss, I will wait for you...Samaritan has given us both a purpose, no?" He leered, as Martine's logic finally clicked.

This had all been planned, the taxi ride, the instructions, it was true what Greer had always said about this entity behind far superior to the Machine.

The benefits of utilising an open system was still revealing themselves.

Issabella's mouth sneaked into a smirk as she left her coat in the taxi and stepped out the door. Skipping every second step as she leapt up the stairs to the hotel's entrance, no one sat at the reception desk, fortunately for them. As Martine walked, she suddenly missed the repeating and ear-filling tunes that the airport spewed, and stopped suddenly. "A little music please?" She requested, at once, Samaritan conducted a sweep and background check on it's Asset and found a likelihood of enjoying different types of music, finally optimising the best track, it started The Black Angel's 'Young Men Dead' which Martine lifted her eyebrows sharply at in admiration, it really could think of everything.

Now onto the next room in the hotel, it was a lounge, painted in blue and white blotches like clouds on a summer sky, with armchairs and couches scattered about, a balcony with glass walkways and good views of the other floors, and a minibar that curved around a corner of the room, which was also empty. Then suddenly a burly man prowled past the chairs, it must have been one of the target's bodyguards, Martine still waited in the entrance way, he hadn't noticed her yet.

There was no point in killing him now, she could make good use of this particular disguise "Excuse me, Sir, could I have a second of your time?" She announced to the silent room, filling it with her saturated accent, she flashed her Interpol badge-shield from her blazer, as the guard approached her with a suspicious eye. "Issabella Fiore, International Interpol Investigation Division, I understand that your client is harbouring sensitive information that was found on American soil? I'd like to request she return such documents...may I speak with her?" Issabella postulated, but the guard (who was a tall, imposing wall of a figure) shook his head and with a voice of respect and kindness politely instructed her to-

Screw it.

She had tried to play nicely, but almost by impulse and reckless cold-blooded ruthlessness, Martine pulled out her Walther p99 Compact and held it with both hands, firing two shots into the man's chest, then another in the stomach as he fell to the floor with a squirm of limbs.

A spurt of blood flew from his gut during the fall, and a handheld radio clattered from his pocket, along with a clean silver Beretta m9a1. The radio sparked into static as Martine stripped off her own blazer, tossing it to the floor as a panicked voice called for an answer in the radio. Now having Samaritan identify her target, she now started on a terminator-like warpath. "OBSTRUCTION DETECTED. THREE-O-CLOCK" Samaritan ordered her, she span around to the area and ducked to one knee, blasting a likeminded security goon to the floor with a headshot before he even raised his weapon. He landed with a crash, a much harder impact on the floor than the other one.

Moving out into the pool area, her mechanical overlord gave a second command "SEVEN-O-CLOCK" and Martine slipped her gun-holding arm under her other arm, loosing two shots and turning to watch a member of the squadron drop to his face, with two large gaping wounds in his torso. The space around the pool was dry, and it was bordered by a setup of hanging tents on stilts, and deckchairs arranged neatly like a chess-set. Martine moved her ponytail to hang behind her back and kept two hands on her firearm, one gripping the handle and trigger, and the other supporting at the bottom of the magazine holder.

Then a gunshot and a wisp of a bullet passed her, and another. Martine's head shot up like a bird and she ran for cover, propping herself up against a stone pillar at the end of the pool, the pillar was dug into by the constant firings, Martine still had six shots left in her magazine. Her obstructions were another set of two blue-suited bodyguards, one was slightly taller, thinner and with ginger hair, the other was bald and had a remarkably emotionless face, to rival even Martine. So he was shot first.

Collapsing into the pool, the bald guard squirmed as his chest erupted in blood, until he crumbled and limply floated at the edge of the water. The ginger man cried out his name (which was sounded strangely normal for his outwards appearance) as he got closer to Martine's pillar. Only with another four shots left, she'd have to try and distract him somehow, as the bullets pelted the pillar and her surroundings, destroying even the deckchairs and smashing the various liquor bottles at the minibar, he'd run out of ammo soon enough, Martine told herself, and that was when he got too close.

Getting to the back of the pillar, she extended her arm to blow him away until he wasn't there anymore. Her right arm was suddenly yanked forwards and she was thrown down onto the hard and unforgiving stone poolside, the man attempted to wrench the Walther from her hand, Martine got some desperate distance when she kicked the man back from her position on the ground, he coughed, and stood upright.

"Nasty bitch, I'll-" A gunshot tore through his forehead before he finished, and his head snapped backwards in whiplash, his body soon followed, like a chopped down tree, the scarred man hit the floor unceremoniously.

With the obstructions eliminated, the Target still remained. Martine pushed herself up to her feet, with bodies around her, the target must have fled by now. Asking for an update, Samaritan agreed "FOURTH-LEVEL...WEST STAIRWELL. PRIORITY TARGET IN MOTION" It's orders were conveyed in more haste than normal, Martine noticed, she had to act quickly. The guard's bodies would be found in a few short hours, but her target would never be seen again.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: APRIL 21st 2014

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

RR CAMERA 33C - 21:36:28

CAM 4 - 21:36:30

Speeding across the tracks, all other things but the train were glimpses of flashing lights and faraway buildings that became blurs soon after they passed. The train's sleek finish allowed it to slide across the tracks at almost light-speed, once it got away from civilisation, it jetted down the tracks and up to a mouth like tunnel. The clouds were a dark purple and blue like a painting, in long strips they sheathed the glowing moon and the misty horizon.

It was a cold day already, and the persistent temperature didn't stop inside the train, as the breeze leaked through the open slats in the windows. Going from zooming across the city landscapes of Washington to the emptiness of a tunnel, the carriage was cast in shadow.

The carriage was now dormant, only a couple of personnel from the many Banks or businesses actually took this train, but they always sat leagues apart from each other, like they were held back by some invisible social force. Closest to the window in one of the nearest booths to the carriage door sat a wide shouldered woman, with a large frame and a imposing face, she was slumped back in the chair reading from a book, wearing a black suit without a tie and a popped shirt collar, with small hoop earrings and her brown hair done in a bun on her head, she flipped the next page of 'Our Final Invention' when she turned her head slightly, the door of the carriage opened and purposeful steps were taken down the isle.

The new silhouette stopped just outside her booth, and then opened up a dialogue in a confident voice.

"Hello, Control" The man began, he was wearing a charcoal grey suit with a purple striped tie and a tie pin of a chrome crimson triangle.

"That's not what my ticket says" The Woman retorted, who was known as Control. Head of the former Research project and a branch of the ISA, this dark-skinned individual would have to come with a lot of nerve to speak to her.

Brazenly, he lowered himself into a seat opposite her, correcting his tie, he spoke in a more sensual whisper "We received your message at the Vigilance trial, loud and clear I might add. Honestly, you may be the most secretly honest person in the Government" He premised.

"I didn't catch your name" Control breathed.

"No, you didn't" The operative responded, as Control closed her book and set it aside.

"Know that there'll be no retaliation from Vigilance, or the perpetrators of any other recent fiascos" He continued, Control's eyes went to the window, they were still in the tunnel; so he had picked a perfect time for this.

"I understand that prior to your capture by Mr Collier you shut down Northern Lights and Research, effectively leaving the country defenceless - no, pardon me, less well defended" He recapped, in case of the highly unlikely event that Control had forgotten.

"Your point is? I hope there's a little more to this" Control pressed him, so soon after the terrorist attack by Vigilance at the court house it had been Garrison that arranged for a new Machine, she had no reason to be invested in the political side of things, as long as she got the relevant numbers.

"My condolences for Agent Hersh, by the way, and for your subordinate at the Office of Special Counsel" The operative said with faux-grief, he had clearly been informed well, wherever he came from.

"Who do you work for?" She kept her arms under the table that kept them apart, her hands reaching for the purse that held a fully-loaded suppressed Glock-17.

"I'm a liaison and spokesperson for Decima Technologies-"

"No. I don't think so. You spy on us, bride and emotionally blackmail our people, and then you have the gall to ask for my allegiance? No, you can't be trusted" Control's criticism brought out a stern face from the spokesperson.

"Don't rattle our cages, Control, you really have no idea"

"What do you want?" She demanded. The man opposite pushed a slice of paper towards her, and relaxed in his seat, as if all the worlds problems would be solved today.

"Nine years ago you were given the social security number of a case officer called Gordon Kurzweil, produced from a...machine that so far has claimed more lives than it's saved. Who...gave you this number?"

"There was a businessman, Ingram, but he's gone now" Control proffered, as the liaison made a noise of confirmation "Ah, well then...if you believed that the secrets of it's operating system died with him...then we have nothing further to discuss" He made a parody of an effort to leave, before Control called him back.

"There was someone else, an engineer...who designed a majority of the code"

"If this person is alive now, then surely he could help improve our current system...Samaritan. I'd be happy to collaborate with you on this back at the Pentagon" The spokesperson smiled smugly, this was what he wanted all along.

"I see no problem in providing the current relevant numbers Samaritan has collected, in exchange for locating this...engineer" He proposed, but Control gave him nothing but a counter glance, her eyes trying to burn into his face, which he took for a victory "So it's partners, then?" He stood triumphantly from the table, running a hand along the back of his seat, he sighed when eyeing Control's somber yet dutiful face as she looked away from him.

"Do cheer up, Control, we...we are the lesser evil. These...terrorists, they want nothing but anarchy" He straightened his tie to step away, but the broad woman made a callous remark that drew him back to the table "They're only terrorists if we win" She stated.

"Oh, We won a long time ago, this? This is maintenance...pest control maintenance" Then like a ghost, he had disappeared...only leaving Control with the piece of paper, which she turned over to find a sequence of nine expertly written numbers.

 **124-56-5492**


	9. Chapter 9: Terminated

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 25th 2004

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

7th ST NW SEC 2 - 08:45:12

The traffic lights swapped from green to amber, then to green again. The sea of people began to cross the now desolate roads as the baying cars were corralled into waiting. The crowd held hundreds of different faces, all nameless, but with an identity, with a dream and the chance to realise it.

The rainbow of colours that moved in and out of each other was confusing to anyone who was keeping track, as the overwhelming noise of the chatter and steps on the road formed a wave of strong sound. In the midst of a woman pushing a pink baby stroller and men carrying briefcases, one civilian snaked through the crowds, passing the bickering map baring couple and the hustling businesswomen. His white-rimmed fedora hat sheathed his wispy silver hair, and his long grey trench-coat covered a pinstripe two-piece suit and a black funeral tie. The short man joined the motorway of people down the avenue and melded with the crowd, becoming one of them, he could shift in and out of the clusters of people, most of the civilians around him were walking to work in one of DC's many office buildings or coming out of the subway stops, so they were dressed similarly to him, a deliberate choice in his disguise. The man stopped at the next set of traffic lights and posts, stiffening up, the cars that shot past did so at a faster rate than usual.

The camera at the bottom of one the lampposts fixated on him, and when he moved out of range, the next one did the same, the ball-like eyes observing as he moved gradually to the next street. At one of the intersections, the man took off his fedora, holding it in one wrinkled hand, and with the other he took out his flip-phone. Dialling a long number with dexterous fingers, he held the Nokia to his ear.

"Do you have my position? Good. Now if you don't mind I'd like to walk with a little privacy, have our Operative at Signals Intelligence go blind, that should avoid any further triangulation" He necessitated. The red dot blinking on the cameras slowed to a stop, and the man kept striding forwards. Walking a longer street, a homeless man slept on the sidewalk where Greer hurried, the bum's face slathered in dirt and hair, he hadn't used common sense for months but even he slumped away when Greer approached. Getting to a roundabout, a few upright wooden benches were adorning the shops and stores that surrounded the circle of road.

Going to a local deli, and picking up a newspaper from a local stand, Greer tucked it under his armpit and sat at one of the benches, unfolding the paper. As he flicked to the next page, another man sat beside him. This figure was tall, with skin a tanned brown and a black goatee of facial hair, the man wore a plain grey suit jacket and waist coat, but no tie. He had a briefcase and a look of contention, with a swoop of black hair that was growing grey at the sideburns, he opened his mouth to speak, but Greer introduced himself first, without making as much as eye contact.

"Good morning Mr Holloway, I've been expecting you, what information have you gathered on our new initiates?" Greer entreated in a commanding way, folding his newspaper back up.

Holloway's faint blue eyes curled around to bide himself time "I've began digital communications with all four, and I've met one face-to-face...but I'm still searching for the final applicant" Holloway mentioned in his New Zealander accent, his cheap suit not getting him anywhere, and neither was his excuses. Freelancing as a recruiter for Decima had been an easy job so far, using the usual code-name and compiling background checks on each of the brilliant and promising young people, making sure they worked in a position of authority or had training that would be useful to the company. He'd normally tempt them with some proof of worth, normally it would be a known enemy of theirs disappearing, or a certain series of events that assured their faith in his information, or sometimes both.

"Then I suggest you continue looking, because our pursuers are getting ever closer...this final applicant, are you working with any trial subjects?" Greer interrogated, and that was where Holloway could have said many things. He was already working on two trial subjects, but he had more faith in one than the other, he had been setting **her** up for weeks now, after finding a loose end and possibly ending a lead on it (Thanks to a contact in the Australian Military) he would come back to her with the one thing she needed, closure, and to be witness of the worse her government had to offer, only then would she choose Decima.

"Yes Sir, using our resources I've managed to arrange the means to bring you our final contender on schedule" Holloway spat out, reassuring the Director of Operations was always a hard thing as Holloway placed a hand on the back on the bench to anchor himself, like his stress-filled mind threatened to fly away and take his body along too.

"Wonderful...because your little stunt in Natal cost us good hardware, and left Zachary picking up the pieces. So for your sake, I hope you are up to the task" Greer grimaced, getting up to leave, he span around to confront his operative and stare down on the foreign man "And Mr Holloway, waste my time again...and I'll find someone more adequate for the task, are we clear on this?" He hissed.

"We are, Mr Greer, thank you" Holloway appeased. He was a contractor, but Decima considered it's own assets highly disposable, only the best and most loyal First Lieutenants were given more than one chance. Holloway watched Greer fade into the public again, his coat blowing like a spectre through the wind.

INT. OFFICE PENTHOUSE CAM F - 08:56:52

A 'click' sound was heard as the extended and suppressed barrel of a Remington AICS 2.0 was lowered into position.

The balcony of a hotel room opposite a Office penthouse was deserted, and the office itself had been cleared by a toxic gas leak, so the man loading the rifle had enough time to spare. On a speaker-phone beside him, the voice of a southern English girl was patched through, just as the assassin checked the sights on his sniper.

Detracting the bi-pod, the rifle was balanced on the balcony windowsill, and the hotel room had all lights turned off and the door locked. Using an alias of Dean Moran, the former FSB commando nicknamed Venator had been camping out in D.C. for at least a month, dropping off the grid after Chicago, he had returned into action by organising potential strikes on his paymaster's enemies.

The walls and ceiling of the hotel room were of an indescribable colour, as the vast amount of black shadow made them unrecognisable to the human eye. Perhaps some boxes and a chandelier on the ceiling was all that could be made out, and an industrial-style duffel bag that held the rest of Tarasovich's weaponry. Four stories below him, there was a central roundabout in the road with a array of fast-foods stores and delis, and benches that lined the curving sidewalks.

Venator focussed the rifle's custom mil-dot scope and honed on the target. The crosshair landed on a silver-haired pensioner, unassuming at first glance, but with a hidden lethality. The pensioner crossed the street away from the bench he sat on, and spoke into his phone, before slipping into a gang of jaywalkers and disposing of the burner phone in someone else's pocket. The speaker on the desk beside Venator suddenly spluttered into life again, and out of the static, came an annoyed moan, and the voice of a young British female "Dammit, he's gone dark..." She murmured. Georgia was impatient, she always had been, high on success and running from one country to another.

In Venator's mind, she was sat at her multi-monitor set up in some devastated warehouse, a high-tech headset around her thin, pale neck. He altered the direction of the scope to watch his target walk around a corner, and down a longer street, breaking away from his protection.

After the last project they embarked on Georgia had gotten much more ruthless, but in her new strategies she had lost the carefulness she once had, opening them up to who the Decima Agents called 'Greer' the man that Nazarov was currently surveying.

Pushing the rifle's stock into the gap between his shoulder and torso, Venator cleared his throat and raised his head away from the scope "Comrade Massey is gone" He informed her with a disconsolate growl. Hiding in the window of the hotel room, Nazarov wore a burgundy undershirt and a navy blue trench-coat, some formal navy trousers and open-laced derby shoes. Georgia's guilty whine came across the speaker next.

"It was me, wasn't it? They tracked me. I don't believe it, I took every precaution!" She fumed, to her companion's calm reassurance "Don't blame yourself, Massey knew the risks. They all do" He sniffed, moving his head back to the sniper scope and squinting, the target was still in range, strolling down the street with a newspaper in his hand and a hat on his head, Nazarov wondered if he had been noticed, if the Washington police would be converging on him anytime now. But that didn't happen. Adjusting the rifle again, he zoomed in to the target and spoke freely as his hand fiddled with one of the dials on the side of the scope "You did well, Georgia, and I am proud of you. Now listen" Venator expressed, as his hacker was silent at the opposite end of the line.

He had her attention, a good trait in a mercenary, inspiring loyalty enough to know when it's your time to speak and time to listen.

"Decima knows about you, they kept you alive because they needed you and now they don't. We can't talk again, not until the storm passes" He warned her, still trailing the target with his sniper's reticle.

"I don't know, this man...you know what he's done, what he's capable of. You need to end this now!" Georgia goaded him to take the shot, and it took every single fibre of Venator's being to not shoot the old man dead, he had a clean headshot and for once he couldn't take it.

Greer controlled too much, though the respite would be well earned, Decima wouldn't go down with him, but the sweetness they'd feel would be amazing...before the next guy got into power. If Nazarov took him down, he'd only start a deadly cycle (and as far as he knew, the Director already had plans in place if he were to die)

"I once fled the orphanage in Yary, my friend and I. After days of nothing but thick grass and ice we came upon a small farming commune in the south, the people were dirt-poor...but one woman took us in, fed us, bathed us, clothed us and gave us a bed for the night. We were awoken the next morning...by the shots. A dozen people or so were riddled with holes and face-down in the snow. Our Warden didn't like to leave witnesses. So they shot the woman and her family last and made sure we watched the whole thing. 'This is your gift, and your curse' the Warden told us-" He monologued, and for a second, his finger tightened on the trigger.

A moment of pressure and Greer stopped in his tracks. He just stopped. The old man was about to turn into an alleyway, a mere side-street until he removed his hat, and remained still. Tilting his head, Greer motioned his body slightly to the left, and in his peripheral vision he glanced at the window Venator sat in "He then preceded to execute my friend swiftly, and looked at me 'Touching lives...only by ending them'" Nazarov finished, taking his finger off the trigger.

"You know him?" Georgia presumed, as the powerful pensioner halted his glance and carried on down the alleyway.

"I **was** him" Venator growled.

He could tell that Georgia wasn't happy about the fact that they'd have to separate, and secretly neither was he, he had grown quite fond of the girl over their missions together. Despite them being compromised in Natal and the skirmish in Stuttgart, they had escaped the forces of Greer for now.

"I've scrambled my code since Stuttgart, there's no way that the CIA or the MI6 would be able to find me here" She said when the static began stuttering, Nazarov was still observing his target down the side-street, but his head perked up when the smashing of glass interrupted the speaker-feed, suddenly yelling came out at the other side "Venator it's-" Georgia panicked while stretching for something, next was a loading of a firearm. Then a shot was fired, and what sounded like items being pushed over and people were moving around filed the radio-waves, more shots followed, and ricocheted off expensive equipment. Fizzing and smashing was next, then more shouting for cover fire.

"Drop your weapon!" A British voice yelled in response to gunfire, Nazarov released his grip on the rifle and focussed on the handheld speaker that was spluttering the sounds of a firefight.

At last a terrifying scream broke the silence. "Georgia? Georgia! Where are you?" He called out to the speaker, but he was greeted with a final blunt sound of a bullet and now nothing. Rushing back to the sniper's handle with a fury in his eyes, he didn't even think about the consequences, only imagining splitting Greer's head with a sniper round, he aimed and...gone. Much like his accomplice, Greer had vanished.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 27th 2004

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

LAPTOP CAM 1 - 01:49:10 — **[SIGNAL LOSS] — TRACK LOSS**

 **[SWITCHING TO AUDIO ANALYSIS]**

Falling, darkness had enveloped her. The water closed in around her, filling her thin and tired body with a deep dread. She held her breath as long as she could, too long in fact. Red and black splotches danced in front of her and she couldn't even remember if her eyes were opened or closed.

The coldness she had felt upon entering the water was completely gone. A desperate hot wave had come over her, warming even her frosted toes. Her heart was beating rapidly in panic. The booming in her ears driving them to bleed. The urgency for air was more apparent than ever. There weren't red blotches in her field of vision anymore. It was all black. Then she opened her mouth. The water rushed in like it owned Martine. It enters cold and murky. Her limbs were moving like some a clockwork doll and her mind was screaming for an end to the anguish. Only there is no end, only fear. The incredible pressure compressed her chest, forcing her lungs to burn as if on fire. Her heart began hammering, increasing in intensity and speed, like a wild and savage bird trapped in a cage.

Martine's throat seared in agony with the rising and choking tides. Head pounding with panic, threatening to explode any second. Despair filled her with every struggling gulp of the bubbling water, the cold was thrust up her nostrils, a stream cascaded into the back of her throat and nose, sending jets of pain through her body. Slowly, the commotion and chaotic song of the sea drowned out to a low hum, buzzing and sloshing at her ears, gradually muting, now one with the darkness of which she began. She gave up on the screaming, the speaking (like she could reason with such a force) even the thrashing, just allowing the water to hold her body in a sustained position beneath the sea.

As her vision finally blurred out and her consciousness faltered, her body became limp and she waited in resignedness for the numbing skeletal hands of death to suck away every last piece of life left in her. Martine had fought, and Martine had lost.

Thumping, her heart was in overdrive, like it was going to burst from her chest, she had to sit up, get some clarity, ripping the duvet and the sheets off her bed, Martine was free.

It was a nightmare.

They had become more frequent and persistent these past days, she barely got any sleep anyway, so what did she care? She wasn't forced to sleep, she loathed it's necessity. Enough coffee and Martine could keep even her own eyelids at bay. But that was a finite thing, and right now, overworking herself wasn't her problem. Connor had sent her pictures of both Newport and Tarasovich, which she ran through the U.N.'s facial recognition software.

The results were damming, and it was the evidence she needed to crack the case open. Venator was seen at the site of bombings on Oil Rigs in the South Pacific, an assassination of a government secretary in Wellington, and a picture of him at a training camp in Venezuela with one of the Mercenaries from the Uganda Case; a weapons expert called Dominick Massey. That was her only lead connecting the Russian to the affair. Newport's face had only come up once, in a screen-shot from a surveillance camera at an airport in London.

Studying their salvaged and collaged profiles, composed of the pictures, known allies and locations and Connor's findings, Martine had exhausted most sources. No passport records for either of them, no bank accounts or files in any U.N. database.

Slumping out of her rose-coloured bedsheets, Martine limped to the mirror in her bathroom, holding her body over it, she felt a wretch working it's way up her throat, the acidic taste itching as if the water from her dream was going to gush out. Still in the dark of her apartment, she pulled on a cord that lit up the mirror in front of her face. Sweating, Martine brushed her brow with her hand, it came back wet and rough, but now wasn't the time for weakness.

Groaning and growling to herself, Martine pattered to her single lamp (the decor of her apartment hadn't changed at all, expect maybe some more clothes were stacked on the rack, and an extra box with a forgotten label had been added) Turning the lamp on, her tired and baggy-eyed face was cast in a dim yellow.

She fumbled for a new addition to her apartment; a wind-up desk clock. It was living in the 'junk' box for the better part of her U.N. career, but after her stints of late starts and poor judgement choices, she thought it would be better to enforce a stricter regiment. Finding the clock in her draw, she rubbed her eyes with the palm and ball of her hand. It was almost 2AM. Not the earliest she'd awoken, fearful and freezing from a nightmare, but the consideration of returning to her bed came to her and was quickly dashed away, she didn't want to risk the oncoming tides and storms her dormant brain offered.

To combat this feeling of being lost in the open caverns of her mind, Martine went to her desk and carefully dropped into her swivelling office chair, which she had saved from her old Court of Justice office. The post-it note was still stuck onto the webcam, keeping any prying eyes out of her business.

Turning on the laptop and viewing the slow startup animation, Martine brushed a clump of jet-black hair from her forehead. Batting her smudged eyelids at the screen, she typed in the dirt-ridden and grimy keyboard and the dull lock-screen faded to the normal hub, she moved her index finger on the pad at the middle and selected the folder, inside another folder was the ramshackle profiles of Martine's suspects.

Tarasovich was grizzled, with a crooked nose and sinister features, his list of known and suspected victims ranged from Government bodyguards, FBI Agents, and members of companies unknown to Martine like Rylatech and Greenglade Strategists Inc, the array of photographic evidence placed him on speedboats in the ocean, and outside security fences. His partner in crime was much more of Martine's type.

Georgia was a pale, skinny young woman, with a tattoo of a cicada with it's wings spread out about five centimetres long on her neck, and another imprint of the phrase 'Funt In Morte' in Latin scripture on the other side of her throat. Pierced nose and eyebrows, her hair was as short as a fuse, and dyed half-green-half-purple. She appeared only once in facial recognition after using the NSA's files, at an airport in Gatwick in 2003.

What linked them all was a very thin ribbon, the fact that Massey (and the other three guns-for-hire in the Uganda Case) all worked on a job in Edmonton, Canada, all according to the NSA's documents and the coverage of events that landed them on terrorist watch-lists. The actual details of the job was unknown, but Connor said that Newport's code was found there too. With logical reason, it was a safe bet that Tarasovich was also present.

Martine was about to open an extra window to check the payroll of Obanno, until each window was remotely shut down. D-Crypt's anonymous chat window opened up again after three days of nothing. His code-name flashed up within a couple of seconds.

'Opening IRC Chat IP Port 85 on 456 . 31 . 348 . 199...

user 'anonymous'

USER1: YOU SHOULD SLEEP.

USER2: I COULD SAY THE SAME FOR YOU. TARASOVICH AND NEWPORT ARE LINKED.

USER1: GOOD. BUT YOU MISSED SOMETHING.

USER2: WHAT?

USER1: TARASOVICH'S ATTACKS AND NEWPORT'S HACKS WERE TARGETED ON SIMILAR ENTITIES.

USER1: GOVERNMENT AND TECH ADVANCEMENT BUSINESSES.

USER2: DO THEY WANT TO STOP SOMEONE?

USER1: NOT SOMEONE. SOMETHING.

USER2: DOES OBANNO FINANCE THEM?

USER1: FIND OUT YOURSELF.

 **[CONNECTION TERMINATED]**

Now even more confused than when she started, Martine's laptop suddenly produced the sound of an email.

She checked the email and it was labelled under 'Unknown' and the file was large. Opening the file with a curious expression, it revealed something that made her smile, whoever was playing this game with her knew exactly when to play the best hand.

As of a few days ago, Georgia S. Newport was arrested in Denver, Colorado and was being held at Rikers Island by special request. The file also provided a printable plane ticket to New York from the local airport, the flight left in the next two days, along with a location done in North and West coordinates, a single name and three random words; Eileen, chimera, asylum, fingerprinting.

Her first step would be to look into the coordinates and the circumstances of her arrest, so she'd need police reports and a possible delve into the U.N.'s Criminal Database, but if nothing came up last time, Martine doubted that anything would happen now. Her second step...would be to get dressed. Now she had become more appreciative of the blockage to her laptop's camera.

Because she had slept naked.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...


	10. Chapter 10: The Trench

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: JULY 30th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC INSTITUTE

FAC MAIN ALPHA SC 1 - 17:59:12

"Patching her through now, Sir" One of the technicians informed Lambert, as his hands worked on the industrial keypad in front of him. Bringing up a short profile highlighted 'Asset Active' and detailing an incoming communication, the Brit arched his back and brushed a fleck of dust off his mundane but new black suit when the mugshot-like image of Martine appeared and an audio wave and speech-to-text algorithm began writing everything she said.

The world map placed her in Tokyo, Japan, as it quickly rolled the feed displays to focus on a security camera in a bar, zooming into a woman with tussled blonde hair that fell in locks around her face, a crimson red lace dress hugged her bodice and a cherry liquor, lemon and gin cocktail was positioned next to her hand. With the liquid untouched, she lifted the tall glass to her thin pink lips.

Back in the darkened control room, Lambert experienced the slight rush of a voyeuristic gaze, tucking his hands into his pockets, he kept one protective eye on Martine, as the other checked Samaritan's sub-routines, still not a trace of the seven. "I thought you'd be back here by now" Jeremy pointed out, acting like he didn't want or need her company, he spoke into the open air, and his voice went from the room in New York to her hidden earpiece in Japan.

Martine chuckled to herself, looking down at the bar, she raised her head in arrogant triumph, she smirked, it was just a small pouting of the lips; a narrowing of the eyes and a tilting of the head. It was so subtle, it was even more infuriating for Jeremy who caught a glimpse of it "Don't tell me you missed me, Lambert" Her tender tone was even more insulting, as she'd often speak brazenly as his peer, and always get away with it.

For some reason Greer valued her, ever since she showed up with Decima (for a short time, but she was one of the first to be indoctrinated to Samaritan) Lambert folded his arms, then resting his elbow on his crossed arm he stroked his clean-shaven chin "I won't, but I will tell you that your holiday is now over. You're to return to the Steiner at once" He bossed, as silhouettes passed the doors behind him, forgetting that this was still a working asylum. The woman in the red dress had a measured response to him, as the camera's view flicked to behind her.

"That's not your choice to make, is it? Samaritan has given me a mission here, more than just eliminating the threat's to it's survival" Martine made known. An advanced assignment? Lambert huffed, mumbling a word of dissonance.

Staring at the feed from the Tokyo bar, he tried to imagine the nature of her new mission, as she delightfully sipped from her cocktail. Her dress was knee-high and left her carved and shaped legs hanging from the stool that she remained on, with a pair of little red platform pumps with short heels.

The bar was the size of a matchbox, condensed into a side-street and built around the big restaurants of the consumerism-filled high streets. A bartender was identified as a civilian under surveillance, Samaritan gave him a common emblem of a tracked individual, as he was attending to a empty beer glass, Martine flicked her hand to get his attention once she finished her drink with a slurp.

Martine leant on the bar, her sunlight blonde hair lying over one shoulder of her lace dress. She lolled her head to one side, pushing out her red lips just a little.

For a woman she possessed a great talent for drinking, able to down cocktails and shots faster than most who knew her, back when she was in the U.N.'s employ she'd be a regular at drinking competitions after work, and she was still currently undefeated. The bartender was there to take her new order in a flash, eyes dropping only momentarily to her low-cut neckline. She twiddled her hair in a seemingly absent-minded way and chuckled again seductively before ordering a 'Whiskey on the rocks' She watched him fetch it, then Lambert broke her concentration "If I'm not interrupting your drinking session, what was the outcome of your last assignment? Sara Akiyama?" Jeremy probed at her.

The former data security advisor and analyst had been dead for at least four days now, her body rotting in the East China Sea, with four bullet holes peppering her back. Martine had found her desperately crawling up a fire-escape staircase on the west side of the hotel. There was no begging, no crying for help, because she never heard Martine arrive. Told by her security to flee as fast as she could once the first brave yet inept guard fell by Martine's gunfire, the Japanese woman was attempting to run to her hotel room, scaling the steps in absolute panic, a whirlwind of conspiracy thoughts driving around in her head.

Was this lethal harbinger of angelic death here to kill her? Was she about to be kidnapped? The motive was clear, whatever she did or thought back at Castellum Inc would be her downfall. Giving access to both floors that the women resided on, the stairs swept ever upwards.

It's smooth slightly rounded banister guided Sara to the fourth floor. She got to the door, one of those doors with a heavy pushing handle, she was grasping it and going to pull it open until a loud bang and a sizzle of pain went into her back. Like someone was holding a hot poker to her spine, the next gunshot tore through her, and the next. Slumping to the floor, her kimono wet with blood, Sara was just a helpless carcass as the final bullet pierced her back.

The active threat had been neutralised. Without as much as a moan, her body was now still and quiet. Peaceful, in Martine's eyes. The blonde woman had used one of Akiyama's bodyguard's handguns, as her own pistol didn't have enough ammo to confirm the kill.

"Don't worry, the target has been eliminated, it was my directive, and now it's done" Martine said with finality. Jeremy admired her sense of duty, she rarely held grudges, unless the person or cause really mattered or had effected her in a personal way (but Lambert doubted that she even had a 'personal' side) he knew that Martine considered anything but her superiors (which never succeeded more than two) to be a plaything, wether it was a target, a civilian and even asset.

Samaritan ended the communication and slid the view of the Japanese bar to the side, bringing up strips of more camera feeds on motorways and intersections, it started the mass-catalog of deviant and irrelevant again while Lambert set his deep hazel-brown eyes on a image of the NYPD's 8th Precinct, just as one of their Assets entered in the entrance camera's view.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: MAY 2nd 2013

LOCATION: Lower Manhattan, NEW YORK, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: FEDERAL RESERVE BANK OF NEW YORK

N. HALLWAY CAM 4 - 06:11:50

The hulking building of the federal reserve was a titan of the New York infrastructure, essential to it's complex finance and monetary policy, as well as housing vaults which stored the federal supply of gold and stacks of dollar bills. Responsible for keeping the financial supervision and payment system alive, it was a important and highly secure place, a good place to plant more than just money. With rows of high stone columns that guarded the outline of the main citadel, large brickwork made up the front of the building, with a rectangular window at every five meter-high stretch of wall, and longways too, more rounded windows would be used at respected intervals or so.

The three spikes protruding from the lowest level of the building held the star spangled banner on the centre pole, the others were empty, as if their flags had been removed in some horrible controversy.

Inside the mammoth black bolted door of the reserve was a suave plaza and waiting area, complete with a security desk and metal detectors. The floor was firmed in golden and bronze tiling, shined and cleaned to a standard so high that every pin-drop was amplified, every face was reflected like a mirror and every footstep vibrated and was a telling sign of who was walking down the corridor. In the north hallway, four cameras pointed in a different direction each as a man in a black six-buttoned lapel, a pink dress shirt and a purple tie walked down into the plaza and past the metal detector. His face was stubby and short, with rolls of fat hanging from his neck.

A toupee of flat blonde hair and a mole growing from his neck, he met and walked with another man, who was more clean shaven and pristine. They walked beside each other, towards the interior vaults of the bank, as the events this week had spurred and shifted many influential people.

The uncovering of the Thornhill Corporation, the evacuation of the Hanford Nuclear Reservation and the motion to move onto stage two had turned this day into one to remember.

"Compromised? I don't understand, there was no alerts, no signs of forced entry, nothing" Farnham stressed, touching on the break-in at the nuclear black-site, his stunted and small eyes rolling to observe his companion, who was only known as 'Mr Flint' and was a representative of a private intelligence firm that had gotten cosy with government operations.

Passing a row of slit-like windows, Farnham knew that checking this particular vault would be a risk, the two individuals that raided the plant had been on a crime-spree according to ISA reports, murdering a man in a park and being responsible for the deaths of five government agents. Witnesses had placed them near the Reserve and the parks surrounding it, but for what purpose? The vaults stored money and gold, unless these criminals wanted to get rich with a high risk of being hunted by the FBI, they'd have robbed someplace else. The muddled nature of the statements did create room for error though, as Farnham jogged to keep up with the advisor.

"One of my people went missing in Shanghai, someone who had access to this vault, so I doubt it was related to the Hanford incident" Flint said at a low whisper, walking with his hands interlocked, his steps were light-footed and his tight cobalt blue suit barely made a sound as he swept down the golden corridor towards a bronze-lined door labelled 'Storage' which he entered.

It wasn't what was expected.

An almost infinitesimally long white hallway led to a massive iron vault door, which was locked by heavy bars and a system of metal rods in a thatched-like position in a circle at the centre of the door.

"Oh, I wish I was informed. But still, the vault demands the use of two keys, and the rest are all accounted for" Farnham compromised, hoping to find a positive spin on the event. "All...except for your late predecessors" Flint asserted, when they trooped up to the vault, there bodies and expressions returned to them through the shining iron clasps.

Flint had a strangely boyishly handsome face, walking as his hand pushed into a pocket on his blazer, reaching and pulling out a gleaming silver key "Decker? But...his plane went down over the Atlantic...it was an accident" the new Deputy-Director of the Federal Reserve wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, pulling out an extract copy of the key that his cohort produced. Inserting the keys into two three-centimetre sized keyholes, Flint huffed at the man next to him while sticking the silver instrument into the keyhole and twisting it sideways and with a pump of his arm.

"Such was the conclusion at the time, yes" He swayed and stepped back from the vault that clunked and shook as the first layer of iron was dragged aside. "People die, Mr Farnham, it happens all the time, even to us. If it seems like a conspiracy...it probably isn't" The representative said caustically, raising his nose as the grid of bars slid away and the noise rattling suspensions began while the secondary gate was lifted.

"And yet...the death of Agent Stanton, the increasing stakes in Rylatech...someone has been causing all this. There was a pattern and I failed to see it" Flint realised when the last gate raised and opened. Inside was a typical vault, with metal boxes layered on top of one another and sectioned into the three walls, but something was different.

Most of the containers were ripped open, with papers littering the floor. The writings on them were muddled and had lots of numbers and company logos.

Some were burnt to a black crisp, others were shredded and with bullet casings on the floor behind them, Farnham swallowed as he pulled on his shirt collar and curved his head to glance at Flint "How much was there?" He asked.

"Money? Not money, Mr Farnham. Information, on all our assets, operatives and proxies, like you" Flint blinked, meeting the man's bulbous eyes with his own cold and saturated green ones. Farnham spluttered with a cough, lowering his head.

He wasn't sure if he was the only Decima proxy in the Federal Reserve, but if they had enough influence to own a private vault, it was an even bigger concern that someone would rob and pillage it. Leaning forward only to tilt his head and purse his lips, Flint started the long walk back out the vault, reaching for his phone, he spoke to the man behind him in a raised tone, although the sound would be carried, his voice echoed at such a volume.

"I'll contact my advisor at The Pentagon, until then, dig a trench, Deputy-Director. And make it a deep one, because none of you are safe anymore"

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: JANUARY 4th 2000

LOCATION: Queens, NEW YORK, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: JFK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

ZONE D # 024 - 16:35:37

She had never been patient. All her life was motion, running, fighting, and injury, keeping her head clear and her mind calm wasn't a trait she had.

Living a life in The Bronx had prepared her for many things, but never a high-class job with the U.N.'s Investigation Department at their flagship building in Hague. Working at the court of justice would bring her a host of new challenges, challenges that her streetwise quirks couldn't solve. After her fight and breakup with Tommy, the woman had spent her new life dedicated to academia and whatever form of study she could get into, as she had no where else to turn.

Getting a Law Degree from a cousin's old firm and university contacts was easy, off the back of that she went into psychology and studied it privately, eventually getting a PHD and catching the interest of a international civil servant who recommended her to join a group of new recruits in Holland. Waiting at the airport for her flight, she had told her former boyfriend to show, even if they were at odds with each other now, she was going halfway across the world so the least he could do was say goodbye. The airport was just past it's busiest time, and her flight was soon to be called, so all the blonde woman could do was wait.

She had changed a lot since her childhood, her face had become thinner and she'd lost the weight at her hips and thighs, her big and doe-like eyes hadn't changed at all, neither had her streaking blonde locks, which she had grown out to just below her shoulders. Sitting cross-legged on one of the benches that was really just a line of identical blue-padded seats, separated by plastic armrests and raised off the ground, the woman was wearing a coat that sheltered her body in a thick brown wool, and underneath she wore a grey dress that hung below her knees and stopped at the midpoint between her calves and ankles, some cheap black heels and a single suitcase that represented all she still had. This was truly her second chance.

Ten minutes had past, and nothing yet, no sign of Tommy, was he even coming?

The breakup and following war of words must have meant a lot to him. The gate of the airport was now filling with bodies, and all the woman had to clutch was a last memento, a small golden locket. Something she had kept from the last time they had been together, she didn't want to look inside, dare she, and perhaps it would summon him next to her. The locket was engraved with his initials, and the last possession that the woman had kept.

Behind her, some children were running around the next gate with plastic airplanes in their hands, making sounds that the vehicles made, as they swooshed around the chairs, their mother trying to coax them into being quiet. In front of her, an elderly couple shared a hot flask of coffee, as the blonde woman pulled up her handbag and looked earnestly towards the entrance to the hall where the gates were held.

"Attention. All passengers on Flight B4EV leaving from New York to Holland will now commence boarding" The announcer said from across the tannoy, and the polite man at the desk opened the retractable strip to the gate and a few passengers slowly filed in, two minutes later, there was another call for the flight, and the blonde woman hadn't moved.

Remaining at her seat, the biggest choice she'd make in her life (arguably) was right in front of her. Stay and risk her new career, or leave and risk abandoning the city and the man that she loved. But what was she really fighting for now?

She had no parents, no job anymore. The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and she was really waiting on one man? She'd succeeded in becoming employable, gaining most of the skills most people would learn in decades in only six years. If this was her new chance at life, then the blonde woman couldn't waste it. Getting up and moving to the gate, she flashed her boarding pass and was let on without a hitch. The newest chapter in her life had started, no matter the outcome. What she would do now, she'd do as a whole new person.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 1st 2014

— **ALIAS - J, LAMBERT**

— **ALIAS - Z, RITTER**

 **TELECOM INTERCEPT**

/ / / NLU ACTIVE

[J, LAMBERT] : I HOPE THIS IS GOOD, MISTER RITTER, **GREER** IS RETURNING TO US SOON, AND IF WE DON'T HAVE RESULTS, IT'LL BE US THAT PAY.

[Z, RITTER] : GOOD NEWS, BOSS. OUR MAN AT THE PENTAGON HAS INFORMED THE **ISA** OF OUR LITTLE SCAVENGER HUNT, NOW THAT THEY'RE USING **SAMARITAN** , THE FUGITIVES WILL BE MUCH EASIER TO LOCATE.

[J, LAMBERT] : WELL IF EVEN WE CAN'T FIND THEM, THEN WHAT USE IS CONTROL AND HER GOONS? TOO MANY COOKS, MISTER RITTER.

[Z, RITTER] : BUT IF THEY MAKE HEADWAY, IT'S STILL BUYING US TIME. STAGE THREE REMAINS ON SCHEDULE.

[J, LAMBERT] : I SEE. HOW MANY THREATS HAS **SAMARITAN** IDENTIFIED ON YOUR END?

[Z, RITTER] : HUNDREDS.

[J, LAMBERT] THEN ALL IS NOT LOST, IT SEEMS. GET A TEAM TOGETHER.

 _Author's epilogue: And so ends the official unofficial Part 1 of my story! From now on I'll be listening much more to reviews and taking all your fantastic advice to heart! I'm already working on changing the formats to smaller paragraphs, and including a bit more description, so thank you for that! Also, the frequency of these chapters may drop a little, as I do have a job and a life to keep up with, so these first 10 chapters will stick around for a while as I hope to get a few more reactions and see how they're received, so we'll see what happens. But I look forward to remaining a member of this lovely community and adding my work whenever I can!_

 _Faithfully, with best regards._

 _Alongusername._


	11. Chapter 11: Deviant

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: NOVEMBER 20th 2013

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

PRECISE LOCATION: U.N. INTERNATIONAL COURT OF JUSTICE

DOID OFFICE CAM B - 14:21:54

"Fair enough...yes Mr Hansen, I understand if Frieda doesn't want-" The long and empty beep of a phone being disconnected was all that Westergaard heard next. He dropped the phone back onto it's slot on his desk, then he lurched and reclined into his large throne of a seat, sinking into the burgundy leather and the gigantic lumbar support.

His domain hadn't changed, the wall of pictures and photographs of new recruits to the Investigation Department was refilled with the freshest fish to the U.N.'s pond, but he kept his favourite workers and employees on his desk, in a yearbook-like lexicon sealed and left open, to a page titled 'Class of 2000'.

He furrowed his muscled brow as he mumbled a Danish curse, his yellow-blonde hair returning brown and then grey at the sides, welting away with time and age, not to mention his stress from the work.

Keeping his title as the Director for longer than any other official working in the department, he had seen off any other contender using his tough no-nonsense attitude, along with a helping of condescending happiness. A new case had appeared on his desk just twenty minutes ago, but he hadn't looked at it as the call from one of his contacts in the E.U. had called his attention, Hansen meant well, but his Scandinavian stick-insect mouth sometimes let him down, and this time, Westergaard had gone a little too far.

Now working on his options, the bulky man loosened the business tie around his throat. He was clad in a dark lapis blue three-piece, freshly ironed and fitted to his body, with a patterned shirt and his wedding ring fixed to his middle finger. The brown paper file on his desk was tempting, but he had to smooth things over with Hansen first, and his disgruntled deputy.

Picking his phone back up, there was a shuffle of commotion outside his office, shadows flicked back and forth and danced across the pulled-down blinds of the windows and a slam on his desk made the Director reach for the arms of his seat, Westergaard hesitated to stand up, almost pushing himself up to his feet, he slotted the phone back into it's block of a resting place and stared into the empty door as it's telltale creak foreshadowed a hand pushing it open.

The office was invaded by two black uniformed men, wearing wrap-around sunglasses the emotionless drones of humans guarded the entrance as a huddled and elderly man entered behind them. If this was anyone else, Westergaard would have reached for the nearest weapon and stormed the trio, demanding answers, then in his better judgement, he did nothing. Relaxing back into his seat, he felt that these men weren't here to hurt him; or he'd be injured already.

The centre figure was a wrinkled male with smooth silver hair almost in the consistency of a wig, deep lines shrouded his eyes and cheeks, and sinking indents forced his lips into a smug grin. "Director Westergaard. Good morning" The old man piped, his head rising from his body like a snake unfurling from it's coil.

Much like the man behind the desk, the intruder was suited in a pinstriped black blazer, a plain white shirt and a sanguine red tie that was pinned to his chest with a queen's royal sovereign's orb tie pin, which matched the flow of his English voice (possibly from London or one of it's surrounding areas) he waltzed into the room without a care, hands in his pockets, the stranger turned his nose up at the wall of new recruits and their innocent faces.

"Isn't it remarkable how authority changes people...have you ever heard of Dr Zimbardo's prison experiment? I find the parallels here to be very telling" The British man divulged, taking wide steps on the drab carpeted floor as the Director finally stood in outrage and dwarfed the man in front of him immediately "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"Garrett Smith, CEO of Greenglade Strategists Inc" His intruder revealed, as he turned around and waved his hand gesturally at his enforcers, who nodded and exited the room, pulling the door shut behind them.

Westergaard winced at the force of the door's slam. "Did you schedule this meeting at all, Mr Smith?" Westergaard interrogated, but Smith casually deflected his question by perusing the items on the desk, focussing on the yearbook of his investigators, one of them was strikingly familiar to him. The picture was small, and the two figures shaking hands inside it were clear to see, one was Westergaard, tall and muscled, he grinned into the camera with a young female.

She was a faint and dirty blonde, with curved cheeks, pale pink skin and brown eyes like a child's doll. Wearing an ill-fitting suit they stood in front of the U.N. logo that was plastered on a wall of a conference room.

"Who's this?" Smith placed his fragile hand on the folder so it couldn't be shut, and his eyes darted up to lock onto Westergaard.

"That's Martine...I could never remember her real name, but she was one of our Investigators, until she was transferred and then went awol, so we had to let her go. Unfortunately...our relationship ended in bad blood. What's your interest?" The Swedish man wondered, while much more important questions appeared in his mind. Smith flexed his eyebrows upwards knowingly, going to the right side of the room, he dragged a finger along the brown paper file that remained untouched by Westergaard.

"Curious. I'm always on the lookout for worthwhile talent" Smith said with a hint of irony, smiling to himself. The way his lips curved was benevolent, in the same way a kindly grandfather would look down on his children, but in a snap, his malevolent eyes and motion went back to the table.

"I wouldn't recommend Martine, wherever she is, granted she's smart...but she'll eventually combust" Westergaard cautioned, as Smith was absentmindedly looking and reviewing the pictures of the Investigation Department's workforce, which was pinned up on the Director's cork-made pin-board.

He plucked off an image of Westergaard's new aide, Lucas Delaney, the victim of a recent promotion. "You're a good man, Mr Director, but you'd never bend to our will the way that Delaney will. Leading this department for nearly thirty years...strong, uncompromising, lionhearted, yet with a soft and caring soul with a need to tutor the next generation. You're exactly as Martine said you'd be" Smith rattled. An eerie and fear inducing feeling shot up Westergaard's spine with the mention of her name in his voice, and all the traits he was praised for. This could be a joke, maybe this old man was her father, it was all just a sick prank to exact some verbal vengeance.

Reaching for his phone's intercom to contact his secretary and have security remove Smith, the old man spoke up again in a sinister, deep and logical tone.

"You can't be allowed to continue, but you have done a great service, I will not doubt that...you have delivered our best operative yet" He grimaced, lowering his head when Westergaard stormed to his door, calling for his secretary named 'June' so that was her name, Greer thought.

He didn't have good time to get introduced to her before his men broke her neck and slumped her over. Swinging the door open, the Director only saw a glimpse of the woman dropped to the desk in front of her, her limp body's arms swaying back and forth still, as she was draped over the chair like an animal that would be draped over a huntsman's lodge wall. Disgusted, the man could only look on in horror from the doorway as he listened to Smith's final words.

"Nonetheless, thank you for your service. You have earned my highest esteem" Greer's hand unhooked a suppressed Walther-PPQ from his suit jacket, he aimed in a second and pulled the trigger. A hole of blood grew on Westergaard's shirt, if the bullet didn't kill him, the internal bleeding would. Shot in the back, the robust man dropped to his knees, then his face. Going back into his office, Greer picked up the brown paper file that had been left behind, he flicked open the file and reviewed the contents, it was a request for immediate action and investigation by a 'Diane Claypool' regarding the matter of a...Machine.

This was what the executive board at Decima had sent him to retrieve, there was a second machine. Not dissimilar to the one crippled by Agent Stanton and eventually revived by the illusion that was Harold Finch, but this Machine was still in it's early stages, only existing as a handful of computer drives. One of Greer's bodyguards returned with a phone in his hand "Sir, the board is making contact" He said with a monotonous drawl.

"Tell them that I've secured the documents and dispatched with the obstructionist, I'll rendezvous with them after securing phase two..." Greer reported, staring into the handwritten request and an official document by the NSA and Runyon Technology Solutions, cataloging the progress of 'Program: Samaritan' and it's current location inside two 800 GB LTO-4 tape cartridges somewhere in New York. The only lead was a former MIT student called Arthur, who was bedridden from a cancerous brain tumour.

"And contact all available operatives, I want eyes and ears to the ground as soon as possible"

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 4th 2014

LOCATION: Niseko, HOKKAIDO, JAPAN

ゾーンfセクター3 - 08:32:26

Silvery flakes drifted down, glittering in the bright light of the rising morning.

A blackbird swooped down to it's nest as a thick blanket of snow was now visible in the early sun.

The walnut brown trees swayed in the cold atmosphere. Not set to change, the weather was frosty and the snow was glittering like white sequins laying all over the crusty and hard ground. Gusting as the wind howled, building up snow in drifts, blinding the day with ice-white dust.

A rumble of an engine broke through the whistling wind, no sooner had the car's icy tracks been imprinted on the road, they were erased by an onslaught of fresh white snow. They inched up the steep, wide hill, wheels spinning momentarily before they regained traction, their wipers moving frantically over the windscreen.

The convoy of grey Chevrolet SUVs led by a black chrome Audi A7 stopped at the end of the snow-smothered road.

The hill was covering something, a natural element above a man-made installation, inside was a shelter, a bunker made by the Japanese government to hide sensitive weapons, decommissioned at the start of the 21st century. It's barriers and doors had been locked until, as two figures waded through the thick snow surrounding the entrance of the bunker at the top of the hill. Slowly, the snowfall ceased and the wind picked up, driving the iced trees to sway with an unsure motion.

Crunching in a slope of snow, the two figures held weapons each, the male of the two was a ranged shooter, grasping a short-range DPMS Panther LRT SASS sniper rifle, with a short scope and an even shorter barrel, the gentleman tore off his ski-mask and took a long breath.

He was tall, wearing his clothes like a uniform with a broad-shouldered coat and a monochromatic jacket and shirt, the terrain was easy for him to scale, as he quickly slid down the precipice of the hill. Settling behind a uneasy rock formation, he prepared the firearm for imminent threats while his partner continued to engage the hostile's as the first line of defence.

Loading the rifle, the man's face was in deep focus, his ebony brown eyes twitching when adjusting the scope, his face was bearded, one of a survivalist, with scars across his neck, he pulled back the stock of the rifle, fitting it into his shoulder.

Touching his earpiece, the man spoke to his female partner.

"I think they've got us this time, Indigo, I heard the cars pull up once we left" Crimson Three Alpha slurred, a former operator for the ISA and going under the alias of Jon Davenport, he had been running from his employers ever since he left, he had stolen several pieces of information before the shutdown of Research, and now that the system had been closed, he had been hiding out in the old bunker attempting to extract such information.

The partner who accompanied this suicide mission was a fellow deserter, Indigo Five Beta, or working under her cover name 'Savannah Myers' she was a fiery redhead of thirty-four years old, still with freckles adorning her cheeks, she marched down the snowy hill to take up a position by a collection of trees that were enveloped in the thrall of winter already.

Putting her back to the nearest tree, Savannah braced herself for the hailstorm of incoming gunfire.

Some ten to twenty meters from her was a convoy of cars, possibly from the government.

Savannah was dressed in a dark blue tactical jacket, some white and grey camouflage slacks with heavy combat boots and with a tattoo of the US Marine's logo on her arm, she found her trusty pistol in her side-holster and cocked it for a fight.

"Think it's Hersh? Or one of the ISA's response teams?" Savannah asked to break the silence of her partner simply setting up his weapon with a degree of grunts and clicks. Jon made a sound of disagreement while getting on his stomach to lie down and have a better view of the battleground.

"Hersh is dead, Indigo. It's probably just one of Control's scout teams, or a Decima hit-squad" He theorised, just as his companion uttered a chilling rebuttal "So it's true then? Decima is working with the ISA? How else would they know about us" She squinted as she peered out from the behind the tree, the cars haven't even moved yet, keeping in a single file line, the doors didn't even open. Like they were waiting for confirmation, the noise of Jon loading his sniper rifle broke her wondering thoughts.

"They've become one now, sort of, what we're facing is bigger than Research or Control. Maybe the data we secured was right" He croaked, pressing his eye to the scope.

On the tree to the East of the red-haired irrelevant, a sector camera was had been recently installed to locate trespassing individuals, the audio wasn't as clear as expected, factoring in the wind and the interference, Samaritan picked up two targets, with almost an army's worth of Assets keeping their place in the SUVs, and the assigned leader in the Audi.

The speech-to-text sub-system had already highlighted every trigger-word that the two had said, relating to the former government's plans with the old machine, the stolen data and the scope of Decima's operations inside the intelligence support activity.

When the closest tracked woman pulled out a handgun, Samaritan's emblem on her warped into a red circle with a small red 'x' as the target lock commenced. The tracking signal changed into a circle with four lines that closed in on her head, and then two large circular signs bordered those, that would rotate occasionally, finally a sharp warning indication appeared around the reticle.

Identifying the weapon by it's specific make and model, Samaritan highlighted it too, and then gave her an identity too, cutting and splicing from the US Marine's base at Jacksonville, North Carolina and the vast halls of info at the ISA, Samaritan built it's own image of Savannah in seconds.

It's final action for now would be to instruct the league of Assets it had in standby in the fleet of cars, giving an order to the squadron leader, the doors of the SUVs busted open, and a rain and storm of bullets began.

HECKLER & KOCH VP9

 **DEVIANT BEHAVIOUR DETECTED**

 **X / / / ENEMY COMBATANT**

COMPILING PROFILE...

NAME: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

ACTIVE ALIAS: MYERS, SAVANNAH A.

 **PROJECTION** : THREAT

 **CONCLUSION** : ELIMINATE

ACTIVATING ASSET_

All at once, the doors to the SUVs swung open and at least twenty black-suited men of various height and race took aggressive posts throughout the forest, most wielding simple pistols, their first target was Savannah.

Her makeshift tree defence was taking a battering, the bark and wood being torn and exploded by the gunfire, one Asset held a MAC-11 Uzi with one hand, which he preceded to spray the snow with, kicking up the white mist and cracking the sheets of ice, obscuring the two forces from seeing each other.

A nonstop rumble of the Uzi carried on until Savannah heard a round being fired and a swift painful impact, then the sound of Jon altering the scope of his rifle "Keep them busy, I'll take out the stragglers" Easy for him to say, he wasn't down in the thick of the conflict.

The Agents they fought weren't at any tier that they were, but being outnumbered turned the tied of any battle, and the gun in her hand felt like more of extension of her being now, bringing her back to the old work; the ways she'd operate with the rest of her Indigo team. This was a typical out-gunned standoff, as the assailants took cover behind their vehicles when Savannah swung her arm out and shot down two of the men, and her sniper fire kept them from getting any closer.

Jon was still unseen by the attackers, while they focussed on his partner, he would spray gradual fire and prey on the most active of them, keeping the group back from any flanking manoeuvre or an overwhelming frontal assault.

Sniping a black-suited agent on the fringes of the gunfight, he watched in pride as Indigo Five Beta gunned down another three in succession, then stopping to reload, her bright red hair flipped back so she could perform the action accurately, suddenly he saw her get clipped by a well-targeted shot.

From the distance that Jon made his crow's nest, the yelp of pain from Savannah was white noise, as she buckled and shuffled down to keep her cover behind the tree.

The new adversary was female (probably the only one among the army of stalwart dark clothed men) she moved swiftly between the SUV and a tree, one legging crossing in front of the other, and vice versa, light-footed, the mystery woman got to the cover with a neatly executed combat roll. Dressed in a typical polyester winter jacket, with the hood pulled back, tight double-denim jeans and buckled boots that just reached above the ankle. A woollen beanie was hanging from her head, allowing the soft blonde and brown streaked curls to rest around her back and shoulders. A long barrelled Beretta 92FS was gripped in her cashmere and leather-lined gloves, tucked into the cuffs of her jacket, and all in black.

The semi-automatic pistol let loose another volley of shots towards Savannah, provoking the other Agents to follow in her violent barrage. Luckily the shot that grazed her didn't do much damage, but the mystery female was determined to change that. Bracing for a hard impact, Savannah ducked down again while the bullets cut through the tree-line. In a moment of protection, Jon aimed his sights for the female aggressor, her face was like a child's favourite doll, picturesque yet shadowy and with that creepy, bewitching and otherworldly expression of pure loyalty.

Jon aimed the sight to the high tree-stump that she hid behind...about to press the trigger, he glimpsed another Agent in range of Savannah "Indigo, on your right!" He proclaimed into the earpiece, watching as his partner span around and kneecapped the incoming Agent, who fumbled and keeled over to the snow.

Above them all, the murky and grey clouds started to split, showing the beaming sun for a mere second, it's reflection bounced of Jon's scope, he cursed aloud when a bullet bounced on a rock next to him, ducking down, he reloaded the rifle and held out, his breath becoming cold leaks of mist in the ammo-soaked sunshine.

Martine kept low against the tree, flattening out her back, she crouched and snaked her arm around to fire two shots at the enemy ISA traitor, who was pinned behind a thin oak. The team of Assets she had brought to this abandoned Japanese bunker was slowly being picked off by a sniper at the top of the hill. He had revealed his position thanks to nature's intervention, and Martine had managed to delay him slightly, but the female was her first obstacle.

The enemy combatant was busy with Martine's escort to bother with her, so in the meantime and while the sniper was distracted, she would do some impromptu re-assignment.

"You two, stay with me" She instructed the two nearest Assets, who were a pair of middle-aged army veterans. Raising her voice, she did the best impression and imitation of Lambert that she could do, scrambling the American accent into a English one "The rest of you, advance on that bunker and eliminate all obstructions" She issued, and her lackeys all obeyed, moving in formation towards the sniper's nest.

Now, Martine had to take out the female. She was familiar with her history as part of the ISA's relevant number program, in a way, the one identified as Indigo Five Beta was remarkably similar to Lambert's quarry, Sameen Shaw and the man called 'Reese' so Martine made sure to prove her worth in destroying these Agents first. Another storm of bullets was fired next, as the two pawns that Martine deployed were dispatched without the enemy even blinking.

Fixing another magazine into her pistol, she stuck out her arm from the cover of the trees and fired three steady shots, which broke into the heavy foliage but did little to her target.

With every gunshot, the two women got closer to a direct confrontation, so when the former ISA female wasted another clip, it brought Martine's face to a smug smile.

The weight of the gun in her hand was nothing, as Savannah unloaded meaningless shots to the cover of her enemy, this terminator-like Eastern European looking supermodel in black combat gear was bearing down on her with each bullet fired and every wisp of air, but for all her looks, Savannah was impressed by her challenger's ability.

Looking to Jon's problems, he appeared swamped by approaching hostiles, but just as she extended her firing hand to distract the thugs he had attracted, a flash of a muzzle made her glance away; but too late. Wincing and gasping in pain, a lucky shot had pierced her wrist, forcing Savannah to drop the VP9 in shock, letting it thud into the snow.

Her wrist showed a blunt wound and obvious ballistic trauma, a hole inflamed in dark red on her fair skin, with a dripping straight line of blood that began to fall from the wound. Unsure if the bullet had gone in and out or not, she had no time to consider that, as the tree was blasted at yet again by more hot lead, how much ammo did this woman have? Savannah then heard something that made her smile, holding her right arm as a trickle of blood tainted the snow, she overheard the click of a empty gun.

Taking a brave step out into the cold, feeling the residue of snow touch her foot, and trusting that the enemy didn't have a backup weapon, Savannah and the mystery blonde now confronted each other. Tension rose between them, the lust to know more about each other, to end each other, and to walk away alive.

"Wanna finish this one-on-one?" She taunted, clenching her fist, the blonde tilted her head to the right, as if she was studying the ISA-trained operative.

"You read my mind" The black-clad woman chirped.

They collided in a physical fury, Martine throwing the first punch (a close left cross) which her opponent ducked under and pushed her elbow up into Martine's temple, she recoiled from the fuzzy impact and landed a right hook followed by a backhand in the other direction that cracked across her opponent's face, sending her stumbling into Martine's grip, three pounding knees to the chest later, Martine launched a side-kick to the redhead's midsection. Her boot connected with a thud, knocking the obstruction a foot or two away, into the blanket of snow and giving them some distance if the ISA's reject tried anything else.

Not wanting to be out of the fight for long, her enemy stood up, brushing herself off from the hold of the snow, and removed her camouflage jacket, exposing a thin grey tank-top with a set of trained and hardened muscles underneath.

Round two? So be it. A stream of snow started again around them, setting the stage as a torrent of white snowflakes melted away when they touched Martine's opponent. Swinging and missing, her enemy overstepped and harshly drove Martine into a tree trunk, a crash followed, knocking off her beanie and providing Martine with several easy elbow-shots to her opponent's exposed back, each one more painful than the last, she saw the spine of the redhead crumble until a solid uppercut into Martine's gut separated them.

Half a fractured jaw, dented ribs, spinal damage, for a healthy and worthwhile opponent, it seemed like enough to proceed with. As much as she enjoyed the back and forth blow-for-blow combat, she had a mission to complete, and playing with her food wasn't part of it. So with a great flutter of hair, they engaged once again.

Savannah went first, expecting and catching a hard right cross to her head, she span, using her weight to lift and throw the blonde woman to the ground, but executing a backwards combat-roll, the suspected Decima Agent was on her feet again.

When Savannah threw an aggressive running-knee, aiming for the chest, her blonde opponent let it sink into her stomach, grunting in her attempt to block the pain, she wrapped her arm around the thigh and using their body's leverage to toss Savannah back down to the snow.

Now on the ground, both of them struggled for late control, the blonde stranger climbing on top, she mounted and went straight for the neck, thrusting her gloved hands around Savannah's throat and forming a tight grip. But it wasn't over yet, Savannah clenched the opponent's head with her hands and attempted to dig her thumbs down into her enemy's eyeballs. "This has been...nice" The blonde stretched her head out the reach of Savannah's clutching and grappling hands, pressing down and enclosing her fingers, Savannah's eyes began to glaze over as her vision became hazed, until Martine gripped the side of her slim chin with one hand...and grabbing a clump of fiery hair in the other, she twisted in separate directions at a breakneck speed, quite literally.

Mouth open and with her eyes as wide as her birth, Savannah's head sloped and dropped limp.

Stepping off her body, Martine fixed her wild locks back in place and adjusted the cuffs of her jacket when a Samaritan Asset ran down the hill to meet her.

"Ma'am, we ambushed the second agent, but he fled into the bunker, he's injured, but was able to dispatch four of our Assets" He bowed his head dutifully.

"Clear the forest, I want teams at every mile marker. Contact Barrett, see if he can bring in an extra squad to back us up, and secure any possible exits to the bunker, that means-" Martine didn't get to finish her orders as she looked dead ahead when Samaritan spoke into her miniature earpiece. "BUNKER ENCLOSED IN FARADAY CAGE. ALTERNATE STRATEGY REQUIRED"

"Alright, change of plans"


	12. Chapter 12: Root

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 28th 2004

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

PRECISE LOCATION: PARK SORGHVLIET

SECT VIJF CAM TWEE - 9:12:52

The coordinates matched perfectly.

Entering the park, a slight breeze rustles the leaves making them fall to the solid ground one by one. An incoming breeze of fresh air was warm, the beams of sunlight glowing on her light skin. The flowers were vast, and they concealed the freshly cut green grass.

The pathway was nothing more than dirt littered with random rocks, this far away from the entrance, as the children were playing and the parents talked among each other some distance away from where Martine stood. Massive fields of purple and indigo plants formed huge platforms and stretches of land as far as the eye could see, walking in them was like entering a world of new colour, unlike any other sensation.

The park that the coordinates matched covered a wide area that could fit about three small houses. It was hilly with a tall tree or two near one hill, and the other landscapes were more spread out. There were benches for people to sit in every corner and jogging tracks were all around the edges and weaved in and out of the park. The west corner had a large stone bridge the connected the two sides.

Many smaller Flower hedges and bushes grew all around; this made the park look more pleasant and attractive. This place would have been most beautiful at the time; it would have been so pleasurable to relax here and take in some cool fresh air. But that wasn't what Martine was here for. She had spent the entire night worrying, trying to remember the code-words that the unknown Email provided her and with no idea how those words would even factor into her getting to New York in 24 hours, all she could do right now was wait.

Sitting under a hanging tree, she averted her eyes when a cyclist raced past, not wanting to get any of the kicked-up grit in her face. Sighing, she could be here for hours. Leaving her her office unattended hardly mattered now, she had hope that no one would need her for as long as she sat in the Park, her constant uneasy shuffling on the bench making the dead leaves and grit crumble.

The bench had been exposed to the elements for many seasons, likely it was older than Martine was.

It had come to resemble driftwood, the bright tones of its once fresh state had become a sombre brown, old, but beautiful. She ran her fingers over the swirls in the wood grain, and turned to cross her legs, feeling the slight give in the wood, any creak being lost beneath the sound of pedestrians or fighting geese.

Martine felt the wind tousle her hair, cool, refreshing and let her eyes fall on the horizon. She wondered how many had sat in this very spot and what their emotions were, perhaps some were newlyweds in love, some confused teenagers searching for meaning, some of the common old folk come to remember a loved one who's passed. Though Martine had already felt each one of those emotions, she was none and all of those things, neither at the beginning of her life or the end, but old enough to cherish those moments instead of wishing them away. Having freshly dyed her hair six hours after midnight, Martine made sure to scramble any chance of someone recognising her here.

The change from onyx black to a warmer cinnamon brown had been a short one, like a shade of gingerbread, she had made sure to curl her locks more than usual, another touch to the best disguise she could come up with in the time.

There was little consideration needed, as Martine had changed her hair at least twice before now, so what was the worst that could happen?

Wearing a slim fitting blue shirt, black denim jeans, some month-old pair of unworn ankle boots, a thin grey lace scarf that hung low around her neck and a padded leather jacket which she wasn't even sure she owned, yet found it on her clothes rack anyway. Some darker and more gothic makeup choices than normal, Martine wanted to totally eclipse the other side of her for now.

The only new information she had was the circumstances of Georgia Newport's arrest, she was found in a warehouse in Colorado by a private security team, she was turned into the police promptly and then moved by a special request to Rikers Island. Who would want her moved? And why?

She couldn't trust anything here, it reeked of meddling, was D-Crypt involved? The mysterious contact had gone silent again, probably waiting until she unlocked the next piece of this longwinded investigation.

The thought of leaving the entire affair behind had occurred to Martine early on in her pursuit of this case, but she was so deep now that she couldn't escape, it had to be seen through until the end, too much added up to be a goose-chase, and the connections to the Uganda Case and now several others (thanks to Newport's NSA profile) had given Martine too much cause to be curious, the information wasn't faulty, she had suspects, means, opportunity and hopefully after meeting with Georgia in person, she'd have motive.

Tapping her foot on the path in frustration, she brought herself to her feet to go for a walk, perhaps some time to breath and another survey of the area would point something out to her. These were the coordinates, this park not far from the U.N.'s Court, so the unknown sender (who Martine assumed was D-Crypt again) knew where she worked and where would be the most conventional yet inconspicuous place to arrange a meeting, or whatever this would be.

She was walking unusually slowly, almost robotically, as if her brain was struggling to tell each foot to take the next step. It was all cautiousness, every glance and nervous flash of her eyelids was a step into uncharted waters.

From the rim of the nearest pond, a clearly homeless man approached her, his coat was full of holes with scabs and dirt in slashes across his bare hairy arms and in a drunken rasp, he began to beg her for change in Danish.

Crawling out from under a bushel that was bordering the moss-filled pool, the man scrambled to his feet. His face was drooling and drooping like a mask, hands that fluttered in panic, he madly grasped onto her arm, Martine was about ready to knock his head sideways, until he lowered his voice and spoke English as if he'd been speaking his entire life.

"Say your name" He demanded in an American, almost New Yorker accent, and immediately Martine knew that this was.

"Eileen" She responded plainly.

"Identifications code words?" He stared up at her, pushing forward slightly, she carried on talking.

"Chimera, asylum, fingerprinting" Martine expressed as cleanly as she could do.

The homeless man let go of her and indicated that they had to turn around, so Martine played dumb and followed along.

He pushed a thin cardboard box into her hand, marked 'contemporary art' the homeless man stroked his beard and huffed "This contains a clean passport, return tickets from New York, your pass into Rikers and a bank card to a well-funded account in your new alias"

He informed as they walked from the pond to under the stone bridge Martine had previously seen "Are you D-Crypt?" She asked when they got under the muffled bridge.

The man looked at her like she had suddenly started speaking Chinese "D-Crypt? No idea what you're talking about, I was hired to forge you some documents and set up a couple things, and I've done that" He said with a simplistic tone, like it was just that easy.

"Who hired you? How did you know who I was?" Martine coaxed him, eventually making the man throw his hands up in sarcastic defence.

"Look, toots, I wasn't supposed to tell you anythin' but since you've got a good look about ya, I'll bend the rules for today. I was hired by a man from the DarkNet under the username 'Parnassus', he gave me your photo and further jobs to do, but me being me, I backtracked the guy to a storage facility owned by Turndale Technologies, if that means anything to ya"

He chortled in a coughing fashion, and he wasn't lying about any of it, so Martine nodded, and thanked the man for his help.

After her trip to New York, she'd need to investigate Turndale as ruthlessly as possible.

Being her only possible lead on D-Crypt, she wondered if biting the hand that fed her was a good thing, but they had more leverage on her and she had on them. With incredible foresight and great resources available even this one entity looked unstoppable.

The homeless man had retreated into the shadows of the bridge like a troll would, sulking away back into the bushes, leaving Martine with the package and a day to ready her suitcase before flying to New York. Suddenly feeling her phone vibrate, she expected it to be Westergaard or Lucas asking her for an explanation as to where she's been for the past ten minutes. Instead it wasn't a call, but a text message, flipping her phone up to view the screen's small animation, Martine saw the highlighted moniker of 'Unknown' appear. With no camera in sight around the centre path of the park, at least she could take comfort in knowing that she wasn't being watched.

One message was all that was sent, and Martine wasn't even compelled to reply. The pompous and all-knowing nature eminently coming from the phone she held, meanwhile, another part of her brain was trying to figure out where she had seen the name Turndale Technologies before, maybe on a truck passing that cafe she liked?

Or one of those spam emails or pop-up ads, it could have been one of those. She knew that she had seen it before, but where? Currently observing the cryptic message, her emotive brown eyes struck a cord of oddity, as she evaluated the language, this didn't look like D-Crypt's tough business-like straight talking conduct, this was gloating, thinking that the Investigation was a great game and how it's ending shouldn't be rushed. On that presumption, Martine hurled the phone into the nearest pond.

UNKNOWN

Well done, my dear Martine, but I'm afraid our game doesn't stop here. We'll talk again shortly.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: NOVEMBER 14th 2012

LOCATION: Manhattan, NEW YORK, USA

SECURITY 3 WAREHOUSE LINK - 23:10:56

Inside the Manhattan warehouse, even the ticking of the smashed clock had a relaxed feeling, as if it was a heart-beat at rest.

Kara felt as if the air moved like cool water and the aroma reminded her of her aunt's scented candles infused with sweet nectars that had appealed to her far more deeply at night than it did in the light of day. In the twilight the fabrics and metals were muted hues, as if they too awaited dawn to ignite their colours for all to see.

The dark room was like a place out of time, a place to rest without consequence.

Darkness in that way was a sanctuary, a place to recharge and forget the things the world said had to be done.

Things that haunted her no longer mattered, what Kara had become now was a creature of vengeance and revenge. Revenge, she had always considered it to be a much belied concept. Knowing that she always served people what they had truly earned kept her happy and serene.

The CIA was her lifeblood, her work and the hobby she favoured.

But now she knew they could play their passive aggressive bullshit games and she would smile, nod and give every impression that she was the gracious looser of the skirmish.

Then several months later something bad would come their way, some random freak bad luck. A nail in a tire, a scratch on their paintwork, a couple of dead family members and a series of untraceable phone calls in the middle of night.

Those years and months had passed, the Ordos mission, John's reappearance, the laptop, Decima, Greer, all of it happened in what was such a short time.

Now here Kara was, firstly, she was alive, and second, she had become a bloody trailblazer. Sitting in a raunchy fashion on a metal crate, she held the phone to her ear and kept her brown-tinted eyes on the suited man strapped to a thin interrogation style chair.

Her cascading brunette hair was accompanied by a thick leather jacket, with a material shining similar adjourning her long and prepossessing legs.

"Yes, I've secured the items...perhaps I should have told you before now, but I-" She sighed mid-sentence as the voice on the other end broke in, pouting her lips and averting her vision from the face of judgement that honed in on her in the corner.

It was tempting to pick up her sidearm (a suppressed SIG-Sauer P239) and blast him in the head just to stop his eyes digging inside her.

"Bosses unhappy? I knew you didn't have the spine to do this yourself" Mark Snow chastised her from his strapped-down position in the chair, his everyman face contorted into a knowing sneer. The handler was still wearing his party-favour, a mismatched collection of long red explosive tubes that was strapped to the rim of his chest, connected to a phone plastered onto the front of the bomb-vest, he felt it's clunky drag in even the most minimal of motions.

Stanton listened to the man on the other end, as he expressed a concern as to who was speaking to her.

"It's my help, someone who's gone to a lot of trouble to end up here, I was going to just-" Kara was cut off again, closing her eyes in heated anguish, she then agreed to the next demand, picking up her silenced handgun with a set of skilled fingers, she aimed it at Snow's chest.

"He wants to speak to you" Kara clipped at him in a cold tone, like their relationship in the CIA now meant nothing.

Snow flared up his hands in an obvious statement, as the layers of wire and duct-tape restrained him, he made a groaning noise "My hands are tied here Kara, I don't know what to say" He spluttered when she sprang on him and suddenly stuck the flip-phone in between his shoulder and his ear.

Using the weight of his head to balance the handset, Snow mouthed a sarcastic thank you to Stanton, and heard a low cough and then a high-class dialect from England, as Stanton's smirk awaited him once he glanced up.

"Good evening, Mr Snow. My deepest condolences about your partner, Mr Evans, I'm sure he was a good man...though I find you CIA-types to be quite disposable these days" The voice jested, while Kara leapt back up to the top of the crate, folding her legs, she tapped her boot's toe on nothing at all, still aiming her pistol to Mark's torso.

Mark's lips were about to part, a snuff of a syllable escaped his mouth before the phone operator butted in.

"So that it makes it quite fortunate for you that my dear Ms Stanton was able to release you from such...irrelevancy"

"What do you know about my work?" Snow remarked with a harsh and gruff growl, the veins on the side of his balding head pulsing.

His former employee was grinning ear-to-ear, her hair was in a battle-frizzled style, some designer's non-design. Stanton deeply giggled with a breath of air when the British commanding tone responded.

"Knowing is my business, Mr Snow, and I make it my mission to know a great many things. For now you'll be required to perform a few more actions, with Ms Stanton acting as your supervisor" He commented smugly, secretly, Mark knew that Kara couldn't have done this all alone. Indeed, she was capable, but not enough to access data and company intranets like she's been doing.

Now, judging from the voice, it was possible that a MI5 or MI6 member contacted her to perform these heists, possibly a ex-SAS Commander, but that was unlikely. Of course betrayal was expected in the CIA, the amount of experience and skills that Langley agents are given with near-unchecked authority always worried Mark, the possibility for a occurrence like this was just too high, as soon as someone from the private-sector swooped in, the agent would become compromised, just like Stanton.

Maybe John should have killed her at Ordos like he was supposed to have done. The face of his other colleague hadn't even appeared to him yet, after the fateful mission to China, he had seen Reese a total of once.

Tracking 'the man in the suit' wasn't a particularly genius move, as it did lead Snow to the man in question, but it also dropped him into Stanton's cold grasp, and lost him a partner and any former credibility he had. "So you're the one she takes orders from? Looks like she went from one agency to another" Mark presumed, rounding out on his theory. Briskly, the voice disregarded what Snow had said with a scoffing sound.

"Oh I assure you, my company does not seek to **order** Ms Stanton anywhere, we are engaged in a mutually beneficial partnership, the purpose of which you will soon understand" The Brit articulated.

Constantly observing her former handler, Kara recalled her own past. John. Their on-and-off work based relationship was more than complicated, leading her fatal kiss to touch him many times. Even from the first time that they met in Hungary, to the meetings with Beale, Corwin and then Snow.

Unity kept them together, but it was the work and the loyalty that drove them apart. The entire Casey job (followed by Ordos) was almost too staged to be true, and ever since Greer revealed that the bombing of the tech facility and John's betrayal was orchestrated by a source at some secret governmental office, he had twisted the knife just the right way. She had been promised a lot by that man, the name of the all-telling laptop's buyer, justice against her former superiors, and an exit from the entire affair afterwards, with nothing tracing her back to it. Mark believed her to be insane after surviving Ordos, she could see it in his eyes, the way he spoke with a calm and rational expression, only showing an ounce of dauntlessness to Greer, who was just a voice in a phone and not a physical and violent presence.

"Hey!...your Grandpa wants me to pass the phone back" Mark announced as he wiggled his bound hands again, his eyes tensing in a split of unfounded confusion and ignorance as he was breaking Kara from her pool of thoughts, the leather-clad brunette hopped off the crate, raising her weapon to mid-height, she gently removed the phone from the wedge in his ear and shoulder. "Is that all?" She chimed, stepping back to a safe distance from the rustic splint-bottomed chair, and Mark's restrained ankles that posed no threat; but still couldn't be trusted.

"Quite so, my dear. We can't talk again, not until you have succeeded in your task. Do you have the hard-drive ready for deliverance?"

"I do. NSA certified, just as you said" Stanton deadpanned, eyeing a placid and unruffled Snow.

She had taken some twisted pride in having him work for her now, stealing and robbing as she and Greer pleased.

"Excellent, I foresee a great partnership ahead of us...and as long as you deliver your end of the bargain, you will have the name of our mystery buyer" Greer withheld. The phone produced static and a final technological death rattle, so much for that burner. Outlining the steps for her plan, Kara turned her back to Mark, dropping the phone.

"How about another field trip?" She said, smiling.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: FEBRUARY 20th 2013

LOCATION: Manhattan, NEW YORK, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: THE SUFFOLK HOTEL

ROOM 1458 CAM 02 - 16:46:27

Veronica had remained in her hotel room after she learned about Aquino from Mike, she had always trusted his word since the Farm, if he was on to something, then it might as well have been correct. She did one last brush of her quilted ebony brown hair and fixed the last button in her purple shirt.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she had already sent away Agent Wilson's entourage and the look of his prying's thugs malicious normality.

But that was close to three hours ago, and Veronica had given away a post as an active agent after Langley, so she acted as a dimwit, fooling the first squad into leaving her alone, for now. Mike had sent her classified documents and emails detailing several key points about the ISA, and much more than just regular contacts.

From what she saw...Cole was primed to expose them. That couldn't end well for him, as Veronica knew that no whistleblower ever made it out alive. 'Protecting the Program' that's what the liaison for the Office of Special Counsel always told them on day 1 of basic training.

Veronica slipped on some heels and flinched at a hard knock on her hotel room door, it was probably Michael's partner, Indigo Five Alpha. She popped a piece chewing gum in her mouth to freshen her breath a little, staying up too late was havoc on the body and mind.

Going to the doorknob, Veronica started to open the door, and her curiosity got the better of her.

On the other side of the door was a simply-dressed brunette, pretty of face with cute features and a freshly-picked peach skin tone. "Can I help you?" Veronica inquired with the upmost inquisitiveness, the response was in a butter-like tone, it was almost sensual in how pleasant it was.

The accent was easy to pin, Texas? Washington? Ottawa?

Okay so maybe not that easy.

"Yes" Was all the woman had to say before she raised something as fast as a strike of lightning, was that a spray bottle?

She squirted it in Veronica's eyes, singeing her eyeballs, Veronica heard a sizzle before she went to scream and slam her palms into her sockets, but she was pushed backwards by the shoulders and thrown into her room before any sound was uttered.

"I'm sorry about my...brutality, but if you talk quickly then I won't have to burn anything else" The woman grappled Veronica by the hands, taking her wrists in her black-painted nails, she dragged her (still yelling in pain) to the bathroom, dropping her to the tiled floor.

The strange and violent brunette made little noises of work as she spoke, wrapping up Veronica's wrists in clear plastic zip-ties, perfectly tightened, she withdrew a small taser, buzzing and crackling, she smirked and took a short breath as an interrogation began in Veronica's hotel room.

"You recently received intelligence from a covert operative of a branch of the US Government, what was the content of these documents?" The woman asked, smartly at first.

Veronica stuttered, still recovering from the acidic spray or whatever the liquid was.

"H-how do you know? - who even are..are you?"

"My name? I've had a few, in around half an hour, my name will be Veronica Sinclair. But for now, you can call me Root" She said menacingly, but still wearing a strong ear-to-ear smirk.

"I'm not gonna t-tell you anything..." The captive woman stammered, crawling up against the cold bath, her vision still not improving as the figure in front of her was hazed and wavy.

"Well, I think we can change that. I bought this stun-gun cheap, you know, but I'm becoming more fond of it by the day. What do you think?" Root squatted down and snickered before she jammed the electric prod of the taser towards her hostage's chest, the initial zap was a jolt of pain, surging into Veronica with a low rumble, but it didn't have time to sear and fade as the next round of the taser jamming into her chest came.

It was an hour in the making, before Root halted...and with interest, she turned to the iron sat on the kitchen counter behind her.

About eight minutes later and with strangulation, blunt force and electricity used to extract no info, Root searched for an alternate means of persuasion.

With a almost defeated inflection, Root hid the taser back in her jacket's pocket "Clearly they train you to resist electricity, have you ever tried branding? I hear once the hot iron touches your..." Her index finger lightly touched over her own set of breasts, running along the top of her bust, they were perking neatly from the blue shirt in which they were set.

"It isn't pretty. So either you start talking, or I see what the human threshold for extreme cauterisation is at four-hundred degrees Fahrenheit" Root smiled again, it seemed that was all her face could do.

When Root was about to shrug in confirmation, her hostage finally broke under the pressure, her answer was vague, but as she only knew what she could piece together, that's all she could give the torturous woman.

"Michael Cole...sent me information about a wire transfer to a nuclear engineer called Daniel Aquino. I thought they came out of accounts with Hezbollah but someone had s-spoofed the transfers, I tracked down the original accounts, which came from a group at the Pentagon. The intelligence support activity" Veronica dumped on her.

"Go on. Tell me all of it, then I'll let you go" Root promised, her eyes turning from lethal with a sadistic masochist's flare to a woman just wanting answers.

"Their budget is confidential but it stretches back for five years, most of it coded on a project called Northern Lights, I- I don't know what that is, but Aquino was apart of it. They had him build a facility of some kind"

"It's name?"

"Research. I can't find anymore names of the workers, but Mike said that Aquino told...his partner...the name of a contact in Northern Lights" The hostage's knowledge ended there. Root puckered her lips momentarily while thinking "Have you been approached by anyone else?" Root wondered.

"Agent...Wilson's men searched for me in here three hours ago, but I was able to deter them"

"Cole's partner, a name?" Root pulled a stretch of grey adhesive tape from her jacket.

"Indigo Five Alpha, her alias is -"

"Sam Shaw" Root had already seen the file, working at Special Counsel's behest gave her a lot of chance to invest her time in mapping out the playing field, and the players.

Root had delved into her file among many others, so she'd be prepared once they met. "Thank you so much, Veronica" She ignored Veronica's pleas as a pair of snapping hands strapped the strip of tape across her mouth, muffled in panic, the real Veronica's vision returned at that moment to watch as the intruder took a container of nail-paint remover from the bathroom cabinet and went to move her overcoat and handbag, along with a black steel Heizer Defense DoubleTap pistol.

"What a nice little chat, now keep quiet, and don't move very much. I'd hate to show you what I can really do when I pay hardball" She threatened, swiftly exiting the room without another word. What had she done?

The entire thing happened faster than the life of a mayfly, and as she heard a phone ringing outside in her hotel room, Veronica slumped to the floor in utter misery.


	13. Chapter 13: Rikers Island

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 5th 2014

LOCATION: Niseko, HOKKAIDO, JAPAN

バンカー入口カメラ6 - 02:12:49

At the frosted summit of the slope, the snow had finally set.

A blanket of clear white now shined up as the newest day appeared. On the hill, an incline of snow covered a set of rusted iron doors that had been slammed shut. Inside a buzzing faraday cage was the injured ISA agent, his partner lying broken-necked on the ground, a stream of blood dripping from her mouth, he was finally alone.

Sealing himself inside the bunker was probably he best option, as Davenport reloaded his sniper rifle for the last time, and found a spare pistol in an ammo crate just next to the door's control lever. The electronic dampening field wouldn't give the Assets outside an advantage, as odds started to mount up against him.

Inside the base was a stark reminder of an older war, old-fashioned bombs and missiles were lining the walls, and boxes of weapons and handheld explosives was enough to even give the most destructive of the ISA a pause for thought.

Outside was a much more violent outcome for him, now his partner was dead, joining the hundreds of other agents that had fought against the wall of progress and paid with their lives. That was all Davenport saw before he closed the gates, Savannah's body strewn out across the bank of snow.

Now he was in shadow, in the lightless void of the empty bunker.

He got as far into the bunker's main corridor as he could, striding heavy-footed down to a blocked off area, a place with good cover and somewhere he could attach a night-vision scope to the top of the rifle's stretching chassis, pressing his eye to the scope, a deep purple vision began, highlighting a couple of faint impressions of heat signatures just outside the doors. Kneeling down behind some spare crates, he flipped out a bi-pod and steadied his breathing.

Even though the history of most ISA operators was muddled, most former army, doctors, members of agencies, serving tours in Iraq or Afghanistan, they all had one thing in common; they were able to make any failure come out as a success. Soon enough, a paper-thin crack poured in from the metal doors.

The aggressors were forcing their way in somehow. In the time that he had left, he needed an exit strategy, every agent had one, he was surrounded by enough explosives so the invading teams outside would be forced into two options, engage him some other way than the front entrance, or fight him using alternate means, the Uzi's and grenades that the Assets used to drive him into the vault would he no use here, one false move and they'd simply blow everyone to the next lifetime.

Davenport saw silhouettes pass the tiny gap in the doors, until they slammed shut again. All that effort to give up? Still viewing the scene from his scope, it looked like a waste of manpower, or maybe he was just missing something, whatever was happening outside, it wouldn't matter the second those savages entered through those gates. Davenport would make sure of that.

Barrett's cars had arrived not a moment too soon, as Martine had to make a whole new attack strategy to work around the faraday cage.

It would inhibit any communication with Samaritan, easy to hide things in, and right now it was one of two things keeping Martine from getting what was inside that bunker. They had spoken on the phone before he arrived, wherein she detailed a plan that was easy enough for Barrett and his thugs to follow, and a list of objects and weapons that they needed to pull it off. Disembarking from the second line of chrome black Chevrolet SUVs was not only the reinforcements they needed, but also a little extra.

Barrett was a anvil of a man, rotund, brutish, and fiercely devoted to Samaritan. Dumb and loyal, he was just the type that Martine needed.

Samaritan had called him ' **ASSET / / 1561** ' and he was a key factor in the intelligence's war machine. His puffy face turned to greet her on approach, his dark grey suit jacket flapping in the high mountain winds.

"We've brought the gas canisters as you said, Ma'am, how do we get it into the bunker?" Barrett perplexed, some of his men dragging Savannah's husk away into the trunk of their car, while the blonde woman's eyes snapped to catch a view of her once heaving chest being thrown into the back of the SUV like she was nothing, less than nothing. "Let me worry about that, I want you to keep this exit covered, and there's another just like it at the bottom of that ridge-"

She explained as she extended a full arm and hand to her right, pointing down a gorge of broken trees and thick pine-wood, criss-crossing like bad knitting work, Samaritan had informed her that a spare exit existed somewhere down in the valley, and in a act of desperation the enemy had a chance of fleeing that way.

Barrett admired the blonde woman's denim-sheathed legs for a second before snapping out when he was chastised for failure to comply, he stepped back and addressed two of his Full-Auto Glock 22 wielding henchmen. Ordering them to guard the doors down at the bottom of the cavernous ridge, which presented an almost impossible vertical drop.

Now setting up the gas canisters, Martine commanded some of the reserve Assets to unload the rest of the equipment, including gas masks, more ammunition and a state-of-the-art processing laptop, something that was specially required.

"Hook up the canisters to the air filtration system on the south side of the bunker, I'll give you the signal for when they need activating." Martine instructed, as the Assets carried the green tube-like containers towards the very summit of the incline. Trudging up the snow, Martine watched them while another suited goon handed out gas-masks to the agents going into the bunker, Martine took one as well, sheathing her handgun into her back pocket.

Her cold weather gear was holding tightly on her frame, hugging into her every curve and muscle, while the other Samaritan soldiers just wore suits and overcoats, she preferred a change of outfit regularly, it kept her unpredictable.

Linking the gas to the filter was a game of tubes and wires, but the men on the hill eventually were able to begin the process, turning a large blue and red valve at the top of a stone box as Barrett loaded his own pistol. "You want some backup in there?" He pawned at her, but Martine only smiled with a fake pleasantry, spinning on her heel to face him "If we require backup, I'll make sure to tell you. But for now, be a good boy and stay in front of that door? We'll need a good barrier if he tries to escape." She pressed a gloved finger to her earpiece.

"Asset squadrons two through five, form up on me at the East entrance, we're going in."

Once the iron-clad and frost-swollen doors and slammed shut again, the bunker was eclipsed into black shadows, Davenport expected the army to come blowing through them any second now, they were probably just having a final reload or getting one of their SUVs to be a battering ram.

As he breathed and focussed in remaining still and covered, he thought about the motives for this attack. With Control still operating, the relevant number list was still coming in (the last time that Davenport checked, the numbers hadn't stopped) So with Northern Lights shut down, Hersh gone, and Research still offline, it became a growing idea that Research has been replaced somehow.

Squatting down behind the crates for so long had left the male operator unaware of what had transpired behind him, as a hanging green mist floated to the floor, the man stood, feeling his aura touched by a wispy hand of corrupted air. An expression of devious pride washed over his face, they were trying to gas him out like a rat or some other grievous pest. Looking over his shoulder to the sound of an internal door opening, a snap-raise of his rifle and a quick pull of the trigger, had he just fired into the abyss?

A muzzle flash and a kickback later, a grunt of an impact was heard next, followed by a wave of incoming fire "Shit!" Davenport exclaimed, diving back into a cramped area between a shelf of missiles and a box of metal panels.

The gas had began to rise to knee height now, and was filling up faster than he could dispatch his opponents, he squinted at them when they got into better range; the same black-suited men, except all wearing streamlined and clean-visored gas masks, including the female that killed Savannah.

She was leading the horde, firing a Beretta effortlessly in one hand, keeping the pressure on Davenport, he just barely loosed a bullet to kneecap one of the Assets.

But the gas rose without emotion or conviction, just starting to stretch and scratch at Davenport's neck, in the bunker, the old air was dense enough for the gas to be crawling up their bodies like it was. With his first cough, he took a final breath and faced the firefight. His enemies had spread out across the central corridor from their entrance at the East side-door. The bullets popped and blasted around him as he surged forwards, carving a path to the exit.

Gunning down the gang of opponents one after another, Davenport kneecapped a straggler, and then found a sight on the female.

She was taking low cover behind a crate labelled 'explosive material' That will do. Aiming slightly to the left from his hidden position in the field of gas, he wondered why she didn't notice him straight away. The night-vision scope was giving him an advantage, and within the faraday cage, whatever intellectual force helped her outside wouldn't do a thing for her here.

Holding back his breath and with a bead of sweat just touching the top of his forehead, Davenport's finger touched the trigger.

Click. He was finally out of ammo.

Within the smoke-filled room, now he found that he was out of luck, and out of breath.

Martine's condensation-inducing breathing had fogged up the gas mask's clear visor to only produce coloured silhouettes of the Assets and the single threat, who had now made himself present.

Three seconds after the click of his useless sniper rifle was all she needed as she drew her keen ears to the man, and she swung her arm around to fire three bullets, all missed as he ducked away and withdrew his own sidearm, a SIG-Sauer p230.

The minds are the true weapons of the battle, the mere metal guns just the instrument that drives the conflict forward. One of them had to make a mistake somewhere. Firing another two bullets, she could be wasteful, having enough clips in her jacket to shoot on a all-night gun range from dusk until dawn. Davenport returned the fire of course, but now they were in a deadlock. A glimpse of a hand or an arm was what they waited for, then a bumbling Asset appeared behind Davenport.

"Ma'am, I've-" He rasped to Martine before Davenport hastily raised his arm to the boy's body and put four panicked shots in his chest.

It was all over after that, the Asset toppled down in one motion and Martine capitalised on the situation, looking through the rear sight she caught the ISA operator with a cold shot to the right shoulder. He gasped in shock and wasn't ready for the second bullet to the higher back and spine, which was meant to incapacitate him.

Now spluttering as he ingested the toxic fumes, the gas had reached the very top of the building, forming an air-tight seal.

The shock was going to kill him, and so was the gas, but a more effective and efficient killer was standing over him now. It would have been humane for Martine to have shot him here and now like so many others, Savannah asked for her death by Martine's hands, and all others were a job, just a chore that carried the enjoyment of shooting people.

His gun has been kicked away by Martine's complacent boot, and just as more Assets began to swarm down into the bunker, the look and eye-to-eye interaction that they shared had to be cut short. Inside each other's filter, what they saw was a mirror of service, admired for their courage, but always being just enough of a martyr for their cause.

Martine would have said something, if she wasn't compelled to put a bullet into Davenport's head. The nearest soldier returned to her with the laptop taken from Barrett's truck.

"We found the data hidden in the bunker, it didn't contain any images, it may have been linked to a video feed and a location, but it contains some encrypted code." One thin and tall Agent reported, the laptop held in his skeletal hands.

"Load it into the car. This is the next step, and it's vital to Samaritan's puzzle." Martine hinted.

The personal mission she was on for Samaritan was classified, and it involved tracking several pieces of a large puzzle, all she'd get from the ASI was a name, a location or a phone number, this time it was Savannah Myers, who was reported by the ISA to be discharged and currently hiding in Hokkaido, so that was how Martine found the bunker with the next clue.

She waved a hand in a gesture indicating an exit, and all the agents climbed out from the bunker (Which Martine ordered to be sealed off) once that was done, she'd have the clearance to continue.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEED...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 30th 2004

PRECISE LOCATION: RIKERS ISLAND

RIKERS VISITING ROOM 2 CAM 07 - 10:22:51

"You can go through now, Miss, fifth phone on the left." The guard instructed her with a preservative tone of phrase, opening the silver prison door into a long hallway-like meeting room. Martine had flown all the way back to her home city of New York to get answers in her investigation, meeting the hacker Georgia Newport personally would help her get deeper into the events than ever before.

She had never assumed an whole new identity before, using another passport, flight documents and a new phone. Receiving nothing from D-Crypt since she threw her old phone into the pond, she had been researching Turndale Technologies during her time in New York since she landed, as part of her package was an apartment key (it was nothing special, a small fixture in a large building, a place to simply sleep and work, like that was all D-Crypt wanted her to do) the company was small, with little to no real information on company staffers or leadership.

The products were microchips, implants, and a lot of projects in development, including some experimental enhancing RFID chip, but for such a small project it had a large net-worth...leading Martine to think that it was involved in a larger cover up, and why would a representative known as 'Parnassus' higher a fixer and forger to send Martine to New York?

D-Crypt and Turndale definitely had a connection, they were either working together or it was another red herring or even a dead end. The entire thing could be faked to lead Martine astray, Turndale being a cover-up for some larger operation.

Walking down the line of phone booths to the fifth on the left, Martine slid into the uncomfortable seat and placed down a thin file on the table that was halved by a wall of glass, separating the visitors from the prisoners.

Drab grey-green walls inspired little resistance, the stoic guards remained at each side of every door, looking straight ahead. Martine shuffled a little in her seat, her dyed nutmeg-brown hair falling in rings and curls around her head, resting on the shoulders of a dark grey suede overcoat, and a camouflage patterned shirt, with a pair of mossy green leather jeans and high ankle boots in a shining black material.

Martine's head jumped at the noise of a buzzer, and a red light on a siren emplacement on the wall span around as a door opened on the other side of the room. The prison side was at a glance, exactly like the other side, but secretly, it had a much more hostile environment.

You could tell by how the guards stood straighter with more weaponry on their belt, how the doors were darker and more locks decorated the sides of them, and the messy floor was cracked and broken, with indents of thrown chairs and broken glass. Hardly comforting, but to a Bronx-raised Martine, it was exactly what she expected of the worst of New York.

A guard opened the shackled door and a figure appeared at the other end, wily and thin, with a body like a dusty corpse, a tucked stomach, and a starved face.

In a gleaming orange jumpsuit and the words 'Inmate 12464' Georgia Newport wasn't the same girl that Martine saw on the surveillance photo back at The Hague. Her skin was just as milky white, she was as transparent as some deathly ghoul, her hair had changed since the photo too, now a bloody burgundy at the roots, growing into a golden blonde glaze, short like a matchstick, yet flowing like a wisp.

Georgia's tattoos had remained the same, the haunting cicada spreading it's wings across her throat, and the Latin scripture had faded into a dull black ink mark. Scars had replaced most of the skin on her arms, along with two new tattoos, a single black tear hanging from her right eye, and a Egyptian Ankh on the back of her right hand.

Her emerald eyes stuck to Martine the second she was released from the doorway and sat in front of her. Both women reached for the phone's on either side of the table, attached to the pieces of walls that made the booth, their lips moved through the soundproof glass, and came out at the opposite side in the phone's rattle.

"I guess this isn't a conjugal visit." Georgia quipped, her England-born voice hadn't lost it's wit.

"No, I'm afraid. Hello Georgia, my name is Caroline Wheeler, Office of Intergovernmental Affairs." Martine fed the female prisoner her alias and job title, and then moved her fingers to open the file, but was stopped by the woman opposite.

"Are you here about Parris? Because I didn't have anything to do with his-"

"No. Actually I was wondering about your connection too...a farmhouse in Denver, Colorado. It says in your Police report that you were arrested there by a private security team, so was it trespassing? Breaking and entering?" Martine began, she had a lot more to quiz her on, so beginning with the simple things would start a decent dialogue before she hit the girl with the hard questions.

Georgia took her time, her eyes mulling around in their sockets, from where she sat, she had all the power.

This questioning couldn't proceed without her mouth moving, so she could push this in her favour "What do you care about my police report? What're you here for, anyway?" Georgia demanded.

Smiling in a warm manner, the dyed brunette had been thinking of a logical reason on her Taxi ride to Rikers, so answering that unwaveringly was easy.

"I'm tracking a person of interest in an investigation relating to your activities, Miss Newport. I'd appreciate it if you could provide meaningful answers, and I could make it worth your while." She bargained, hoping that Georgia would take it. Shaving time of her sentence? Giving her more regular leave of the prison? Even just a better meal in the mess hall would have been worth it.

Her body hadn't adjusted to prison life, the roaming fields and easy lives of the UK doesn't prepare you for anything, Georgia's grandfather used to tell her, on cold winter Sunday nights. "The farmhouse was owned by a friend of mine." She said cryptically.

Martine reached into the file and produced a gallery of images, she span them around and showed them to the girl through the glass partition between them.

"These friends? Which one helped smuggle you into Denver from Stuttgart, hmm?" She pressed pictures of Dominick Massey and the three other Mercenaries in the Uganda Case. "I was never in Stuttgart. I was in Lyon." Georgia retorted.

Martine must have misstepped somewhere. "Then who arrested you? The true owners of the farmhouse?" She returned with, proudly showing the police report and the satellite images detailing black SUVs surrounding a rusted barn.

"You wouldn't understand, because you have no idea what you're caught up in." Georgia warned her, her eyes clawing back a hint of fear.

"Try me." Martine snarled, summoning the strongest part of herself, as Georgia let loose with the goldmine of all she knew.

"Massey is dead, so is Camden, Asha, and Kellan. All dead. And I killed them." Georgia revealed, so that quickly eliminated the possibility of finding the other three Mercs, as Martine planned if this meeting went sour.

"How so?" Martine asked calmly, with a eyebrow raise.

"I had used the same signature code for all my hacks...and the-the people who are hunting us...found out. They killed all four of them in Stuttgart, when I left a exploitable node exposed. I caused their deaths." She gulped, Martine nodded, now having the context she needed, she pushed for information on a known associate.

"Who's 'Us'?" Martine used an inflection on the word, and it made Georgia stop for a second, as if she forgot about her connections.

"I was working with a team, and the people who killed those Mercenaries were the same that arrested me in Colorado." She spilled. "Are they affiliated with the government? Contractors?" Martine wondered, this could fill a major gap in her investigation, possibly giving her a edge against D-Crypt, as it stood to reason that D-Crypt orchestrated Newport's arrest to have Martine move back to New York.

"Not government. We hacked into their database as a part of our campaign, and we opened a can of worms...one we never should have opened. The security team is a branch of a private intelligence firm based in Shanghai, it has thousands of shell corporations and dummy holdings, so no one knows the whole picture. I just know a name...Decima."

"Decima..." Martine said it aloud, running the name across her tongue. "Are they working with Turndale Technologies?" Martine leaned forward towards the glass as the female prisoner shook her head in confusion, she didn't know.

So Martine would get no further on that lead, at least she knew that this 'Decima' was somehow involved now too, the web just kept getting bigger. Swiftly, Martine wrote down the name and continued onto the next topic, showing a FSB and NSA profile, along with what remains of a service record.

"This is a friend of yours, I believe. The Venator, or as we know him-" Martine was cut off suddenly by Georgia's rushed speech "Yes, I know his real name, he survived Stuttgart, and wasn't in Denver when I was arrested." She informed the official, thinking that now she and nothing else to lose, and a whole lot to gain while in prison. Whoever arranged for her to be moved here wanted her kept here, so she could at least make it hard for them.

"Where is he now?" Martine wondered in her direction, tapping her silver-painted fingernail on the paper.

"I don't know, when I was detained he was still tracking...Decima's leader." Georgia shivered day the mention of that title. "Jobs like these sound pretty dangerous, Georgia. So who coughs up the paycheque? Is it Obadiah Obanno?" Martine's tone became more confrontational now, rousing some suspicion as one of the guards viewed her cautiously.

In Georgia's mind, this person must have been some secret FBI agent or undercover operator, her amount of information was unbecoming for the intergovernmental affairs division, a small spark of a theory grew that she was being informed by Decima itself, but that seemed stupid to her.

"Obanno? How do you know so much?" Georgia bleated, her words rounding on the woman, but her verbal sparring partner was more than ready "So, he did fund you, then?" She smiled. Making Georgia concede, she told all once again "Yes but only in the earlier years, stealing information, attacking the government, Obanno was small-time. We got a new employer just last year, it's him who's instructing us to hack and stalk these tech companies and kill their workers." Georgia said regretfully. One more question should do it, Martine thought.

"This new employer, does he have a name?"

"More than that, he has an empire. He's paid us for so many jobs against companies like Rylatech and Greenglade, Decima too, but they always manage to slip us. He believes that the government isn't doing anything to sanction these rogue minds, so he's hiring us to take them down a peg or two. He contacts Nazarov via the DarkNet...under the username 'Parnassus'" Georgia breathed.

Martine mumbled a curse word while running a stressed hand across her hair, her whole world was getting more confusing every day.

The forger was contacted by Parnassus, it was him who found out that the signal came from Turndale Technologies, who could be affiliated with D-Crypt.

But why would a technology company want to destroy other likeminded technology companies? Surely good competition wasn't that unhealthy. D-Crypt, that's who Martine needed to talk too, they'd be able to provide at least a shred of reason to this.

Now she needed to get to her apartment and open her laptop.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Newport, I'll see what I can do about your current arrangements." Martine gave a much more hospitable glance to her, before collecting her file and exiting the booth. On her way out of the prison's visiting room, she was faced with a long hallway.

Striding down it, her phone began to buzz and shake in her pocket, pulling it out, she didn't recognise the number "Hello?" She began into the phone, until an official and somber-sounding voice honed in at the other end.

"Martine? Is this Martine Rousseau?"

A long time since she's been called that name, but the caller didn't sound sinister, as the background noise of hustle and bustle was constant behind the caller's voice.

"Yes? Who is this?" Martine replied.

"This is the New York Presbyterian Hospital in The Bronx area...last night we admitted a Mr Tommy Rousseau, this was the emergency contact number on his phone. I regret to inform you that Mr Rousseau has been involved in a near-fatal car accident and is in our..." The Doctor could have said more, but Martine hadn't been listening, how did the hospital even get her new number? On a burner phone no less.

But she didn't care to think that now, her entire history had flashed before her eyes and her grip on the phone had become as weak as putty, her arms fell to her sides, and she dropped heavily to her knees.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 6th 2014

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: UNITED STATES SUPREME COURT OF JUSTICE

SCB RM 127 D - 13:31:11

In a heavenly white room, a semi-circular table entrapped a small desk-like table, behind the desk was a chest-high wooden wall and rows upon rows of public and private seating.

Eleven figures sat at each of the high-backed and heavy chairs behind the semi-circular table, one judge, and ten congressmen and women picked out to serve as the impartial viewers.

No press had arrived as the door was closed to them, Congress didn't want the press to know that the biggest newspaper and media owner in the West was being summoned to a hearing. But the crimes that this particular person was accused of was too great and too secretive to be a public and widespread affair.

The galley was closed only to individuals of the private sector, military, political figures and department officials only.

The eleven all had weary and scornful looks on their earnest faces, as a camera whirred into the life, the frail woman operating it gave a thumbs up.

"Mr Rasmussen, please state your full name for the record." An American woman's voice boomed through the hall.

In reply, a soft and heavily accentuated Danish accent came back.

"Lars Hugo Rasmussen." The figure sat behind the table opposite the members of Congress bowed his head respectfully to the camera.

The woman questioning him was in her mid-sixties, wrinkled around the face with a restricted blonde haircut and frills of skin decorating her neck, wearing a set of formal clothes, she glanced down at a report and several newspaper clippings and the files of bank transactions.

"Mr Rasmussen...how would you describe your relationship with the President?" She posed to him, clasping her hands as she learnt forwards. Rasmussen's upper lip curled, his bright blue eyes having a deadness to them; a stillness. As if he wasn't alive at all. Calmly, he flexed his thin eyebrows upwards.

"The President of the United States?" He countered, to a snicker from the galley. "Any of the US Presidents you have known."

"I don't think that I have any relationship with any of them, should I have?" He clarified, his face twisting into a mask of a smirk.

His body was lean and suited in grey and blue, with a pair of thin-rimmed glasses sat neatly on the table in front of him, next to a glass of water, some tissues, a bottle of hand sanitiser and a cloth.

"Forgive me, it's just that this report says you've had...nine meetings at the White House this year. Do you recall any of the reasons that you were present?" She interrogated, the old female judge seeing that the members of Congress were waiting with anxious eyes for his response.

"I could...but not without saying more than I believe is necessary." Rasmussen negotiated, dodging around the question.

In the back of the galley, just off of the range of anyone with sensitive ears, sat two figures.

One was a sharply-dressed male with styled dark brown hair and tanned skin, a permanent smile fixed to his handsome face, and the other was a young brunette in a black leather jacket, zipped up to her collar, she eyed the judge with daggers for pupils, her hellish gaze on the centre of the hearing.

"Patience, Brittany, let justice take it's course. For now, Samaritan wants this to play out." Lambert advised her.

The new Asset made a fist down by her side, scowling. Lambert had finally been let out of the base of operations at the psychiatric institute, having Murrow take over in the meantime. He had been overseeing the training and teaching of new Assets prior to Samaritan's preparation for The Correction.

At this tribunal, they'd see how the justice system of America is deeply corrupt, and how someone like Rasmussen escapes time after time. His most recent crime was embezzlement and investment fraud, taking seven billion dollars from the people of Morocco by infiltrating their government, he was about to be tried at The Hague, but the American judiciary decided to have a go first, as Rasmussen was hiding out in the Danish Consulate (and had attended the tribunal on the grounds of good faith).

Lambert and Brittany were sat on the bench nearest to the door, the young woman's eye twitched.

"All these people are delusional, do we need further convincing?" She said harshly, but Lambert held out a finger to silence her for a minute "Come now, don't be so narrow minded. The majority are how you describe, yes, but properly manipulated and with the right lure...certain power-players can become sharp tools." He reminded her, as a corner camera recognised them both as ' **ASSET / / 401** ' and ' **ASSET / / 1348** ' and it began to slowly move away from it's watching Agents, honing in on the tracked man behind the table, Rasmussen.

Samaritan's identification system flickered before restoring his title in a buffering manner.

 **ASSET / / 013**

ACTIVATING ASSET_

A wide man to the left of the judge leant forward into the microphone, clearing his clogged throat beforehand, he spoke in a southern accent with a unsure phrasing, the mound of black hair on his head looking more like a wig than anything natural.

"Do you believe it odd that a newspaper editor, a media mogul, a private banker and in fact, a foreign national, should have such unrestricted access to our President?" He coughed, as Rasmussen reached for his glasses.

Raising them to his face, he fit them carefully and locked eyes with the congressmen.

Rasmussen's had a Fox-like face, long with sharp cheeks and a goatee beard that formed from straight grey sideburns that leaked down the sides of his head.

"I don't think it's odd that a man would accept an invitation...I was invited, after all." As he spoke, Samaritan used it's infinite knowledge to give it's Asset an unseen perk, a wordless and mute advantage. Running through profiles like education, financial activity, public statements, psychological abnormalities, hospital records, the entire life of this man, until Samaritan produced a readout in grey and white text in the glasses' lenses.

[SUSPECT IDENTIFIED]

DESIGNATION: **DEVIANT**

NAME: WRIGHT, TREVOR B.

DOB: 11/05/1965

SSN: XXX-XX-5018

POSITION: CONGRESSMAN, U.S. CONGRESS

DIAGNOSIS: -ADULTERER

-MULTIPLE SEXUAL PARTNERS

-CONSUMPTION OF PORNOGRAPHIC MATERIAL

-ILLEGAL INTERNET DOWNLOADS

TRANSGRESSIONS: **ANALYSING...**

Rasmussen tilted his head, utilising Samaritan's 'God Mode' was easy to do, but not everyone would share the honour.

Pencil-pushers and grunts like Lambert would probably never experience it, but for the political side of the ASI's efforts, having the all-knowing conquerer on your side was a great and unlimited power.

As a media mogul, Rasmussen was Samaritan's mouthpiece, for now, until an Analog Interface was found, the Danish man used his hundreds of different newspaper brands and television stations to secretly influence the masses. As Congressman Wright leered forwards, expecting more from the businessman, the diagnostic had finished running and produced a screen of blood-red text.

TRANSGRESSIONS:

 **OFFICIAL MISCONDUCT: 41 COUNTS**

 **SEXUAL HARASSMENT: 19 COUNTS**

 **BRIBE RECEIVING: 122 COUNTS**

 **ABUSE OF ALCOHOL: 162 COUNTS**

CONCLUSION: POSSIBLE THREAT TO ASSET

RECOMMENDATION: TRACK

"However, you do have my deepest apologies for being foreign." Rasmussen jeered in a monotone voice, causing a rise of harsh glances to the Congressman for his remark.

In disgust and outrage, Wright turned the older female judge, his cheeks now flushed with crimson, and a line of sweat across his brow.

"That's not what I meant, Judge, that is not in any way what I intended by-" He stammered but she cut him off by speaking over him.

"Mr Rasmussen, do you believe that your interactions with The President...or any other world leader, would have influenced a government's actions, or the changing of United States law in any way?" She said bluntly, attempting to change the man's target.

She succeeded, as Lambert and Brittany watched from the background. The businessman eyed the judge in the middle and a similar deconstruction appeared.

[SUSPECT IDENTIFIED]

DESIGNATION: **TRACKED INDIVIDUAL**

NAME: LOCKWOOD, JUDY F.

DOB: 22/10/1960

SSN: XXX-XX-1689

POSITION: JUDGE, U.S. SUPREME COURT

DIAGNOSIS: - MARITAL CONTROVERSY

-MULTIPLE OPEN BANK ACCOUNTS

-UNKNOWN NON-US RESIDENCE

TRANSGRESSIONS: **ANALYSING...**

Smiling, Rasmussen removed his glasses with a flicking motion, and picked up his grey and dusty cloth, wiping down his spectacles, he looked firmly into the camera again before setting the glasses back onto his face.

"No." He said with finality.

Judge Lockwood was in near disbelief, as she moved her mouth back to the microphone "Are you completely sure?"

TRANSGRESSIONS:

 **JUDICIAL NEPOTISM: 178 COUNTS**

 **OFFICIAL MISCONDUCT: 23 COUNTS**

CONCLUSION: DEVIANT-

 **REEVALUATING IDENTIFICATION**

CONCLUSION: POTENTIAL PROXY

RECOMMENDATION: ENLIST

"I am. Beyond all doubt, Judge Lockwood."


	14. Chapter 14: Rousseau

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: OCTOBER 1st 2004

LOCATION: Inwood, The Bronx, NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: NEW YORK PRESBYTERIAN - THE ALLEN HOSPITAL

2 TAH W IN. WARD HALLWAY CAM 12 - 03:01:45

She had been in hospitals many times before, but never in this situation.

The hospital corridor was stuffy and the air had an undertone of bleach.

The walls that cornered her in were magnolia of colour and were scraped in places from the hundreds of trolleys that must have bumped into them.

The many pictures on the walls were cheap benign and insulting prints of uplifting scenes and above the double doors are large blue plastic signs with the areas of the hospital that lie ahead. Sitting on the outside of the ward, Martine's innards pumped inside her, blood surging around and flowing directly to her lungs and heart.

On a ward like this, she couldn't imagine Tommy ever being here...and she had forgotten how many years it was since she last saw him (in reality it was only five years, but leaving on bad terms always accelerated the feelings of loss) the hallway was as expected, sterile; calm, unhurried efficiency; latex and packaged gauze.

Martine had performed a rushed change of clothes, stopping off at her new box-like apartment to grab a bag and her laptop. However while changing from the patterned shirt to a jet black turtleneck, and a darkly coloured overcoat with a popped collar, she had a series of contradictory thoughts. She received the hospital's call from a burner phone with a new number, how could that be possible? And they used her nickname, Martine.

Granted, she had been using that as her name since she started with the U.N. but that was long after she left Tommy, so how could he have known when her peers began referring to her as that name? And using Tommy's last name, too. It all lined up a little too perfectly as a short-necked nurse passed down the corridor. The nurse passed a table full of thin books and currently updated newspapers, The New York Journal, Metro Daily, and an old copy of Manhattan Today (Only two of which had been recently bought out by the Zenith-Media Corporation) moving her eyes away from the table, Martine had tied her hair up into a tight dome-like bun, with minimalistic makeup and a thin layer of eye-liner.

Turning her head from left to right slowly, she looked for any indication of an alert. Nothing from D-Crypt at all, and she had asked where Tommy was at the reception, so was in the right place when a doctor marched out of a room on her left. Martine stood instinctively (more like compulsively, as she'd do the same whenever a U.N. Director walked into the room) The doctor held out his hands and motioned her to sit.

"Please, keep seat. Ms Rousseau I'm Dr Nolan, I'm the one who called you" The blonde round-headed man prattled, finally, Martine thought, she could get some answers.

Not wanting to seem hostile, she sat and gave a tender smile. Pressing her teeth together, Martine adjusted her voice to sound a little more friendly.

"Ah, Yes. How did you contact me again, Doctor? I mean, I recently changed my phone number, and I haven't seen Tom-I mean, Mr Rousseau...for some time" Martine explained, that was the most mundane explanation she could give the Doctor. The truth was too complicated and convoluted for anyone but herself now.

His answer changed and somewhat confirmed what Martine had considered.

"We didn't know that, our call must have been simply transferred...I can have our people look into it, if you want?" He questioned, but the woman opposite shook her head, wanting to get back to the matter lying in the room to her left.

The Doctor carried no file or paper, and was dressed in a plain white lab-coat with a brown blazer and white shirt underneath, and after Martine denied his request, his mind too turned to Tommy, or as he knew him; his injured patient. "Ms Rousseau, if I can speak about Thomas. He was involved in a very catastrophic collision, he's lucky to even be in that bed-" He pattered around the real situation like a schoolgirl would skip across the playground, before Martine lashed out with a sneer.

"Cut the crap, Doc, How is he?" She nagged. Lowering his head, Nolan suddenly looked to the door with sea-green eyes, and nodded to someone in the background.

A male nurse with striking facial hair sprouted from the doorway, brandishing a clipboard, he swung to the side of the Doctor. They mulled over the board before Martine rested a hand on the back of the board, but it was snatched away from her.

"Mr Rousseau has suffered a complete spinal injury, meaning that any effected bones in the spine below the injury will be completely paralysed. I'm sorry, but if he doesn't get through these next twenty-four hours...then Mr Rousseau will die" Nolan said glumly, as Martine rushed in her head for a solution. Martine felt the panic begin like a cluster of spark plugs in her abdomen.

Tension grew in her face and limbs, her mind replaying the last moment she felt like this, when she was ten years old. Her breathing became more rapid, more shallow. In these moments before her personal hurricane, she understood the thrill seeking, the alcohol abuse... anything to stop the primal surge to flee. A rushed answer escaped her "Isn't there anything you can do?!" She bawled to a calm wall of professionalism. "There is a way. But it would be...at it's shortest, two and a half hours.

It's longest would a six to seven hour operation, which I fear Mr Rousseau would not survive" He lamented, with a further meaningless apology, the nurse reached out to her, but Martine defied it, and stormed and slipped her way into the hospital room.

Martine's breath caught in her throat. The hospital room was as devoid of beauty as she was of hope.

It's walls were simply cream, not peeling or dirty, just cream. There was no decoration at all, save the limp curtain that can separate the bed from the the rest of the room. It was perhaps once the kind of green that reminds people of spring-time and hope, but it was faded so much that the hue was insipid.

The room as an undertone of bleach and the floor is simply grey. At the far end are windows in brown metal frames, only openable at the top. Not a single decoration around the bed, no flowers, cards or home brought food. He was sleeping when Martine entered. There was a stand for intravenous drips and monitors.

At the door we're dispensers for rubber gloves, hand sanitiser and soap. Martine was half expecting the twenty-year old she split up with in the suburbs of The Bronx to still be as young as when they met, but what she saw wasn't a boy.

His lower chin was slathered in hair, and his body was draped over by a sheet and he was wearing a paper-thin transparent gown. Walking around to the right side of the bed, she sniffled back an unknown feeling. He had gotten older, with bags under his closed eyes and as a gentle snore escaped him, Nolan and his nurse rushed inside, but stopped when they saw Martine inches away from the bed. Her eyes softly scanning him, tracing her hand across the metal bar that lined his bed, a flood happened inside her mind. The growing knowledge she felt while walking in The Bronx. Seeing Tommy at his home, how they'd appear on each other's doorsteps, broken and bleeding.

Pulling back the sheet suddenly, Martine noticed the drip of water attached to his arm and chest. What she felt wasn't love, it was nostalgia. She fought the emotion welling up as her body had an entirely different plan, bracing her hands on the rails around his bed, Martine lowered herself to Tommy's chest, seeing it heave up and down and listening to the heart inside thump. Her head rested on his chest, closing her eyes, Martine let herself be washed away by the momentary expression of bliss. Martine's hand grasped his bicep, and she anchored herself to his motionless body before Nolan spoke.

"Ms Rousseau...I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave the room now" He cautioned. Martine mumbled a promise and slipped a small golden necklace-like item into Tommy's gown pocket. She had finally returned the locket to him.

Letting the doctors have their way, Martine stepped defeated out into the corridor, which was now even more empty.

At least she'd see the nurse pass every so often, but it was like during her five minute experience with Tommy, the entire ward had been cleared out. Resisting the urge to pace up and down, Martine sat under the artificial lighting and crumpled her body onto one of the benches.

She flipped up her phone, still silence from D-Crypt. Had she begun to rely solely on it's information? Surely she was more independent than this, turning her burner away from her in disgust, Martine was about to settle for the derelict books until a silent outlined silhouette appeared at the end of the corridor. Her curiosity overlooking her sense of logic, she eyed the stranger. Doing it mostly for fun and using her U.N. training, Martine had a go at profiling the figure as it got closer, for old times sake (as today was a day for old times) she conducted a snap-judgement.

Obviously Male, maybe mid-thirties, or early forties. Nationality was harder, Australian by the swaggering posture and the mediocre suntan, but with a Maori strength, walking with purpose. A New Zealander. Suited, so possibly a banker or a occupation relating to insurance or finance. Why would he be here? A colleague? A family member? Both was possible, but as he sat down across from Martine, she got the impression that she was now the one being profiled.

He straightened his blue and black striped tie while reaching for a broadsheet newspaper. Crossing his legs, a quiet murmur escaped him as he flipped open a couple of pages.

"Ah, do you know that the old courthouse on Jerome Avenue is set to be shut down? How saddening, but it's the inevitability of time, don't you think?" The stranger pronounced, his voice sounding a mixture between American and his native tongue of hearty Australian.

Martine sank into her chair, wishing that this stranger would just leave her alone, she had enough to deal with than this at the moment. About to raise from her chair to find another bench, the man spoke up.

"Martine. I'm Special Agent Wade Bennett, FBI. Can I speak to you for a second?" He whispered yet in a demanding tone, drawing his target back to the bench.

She scoffed momentarily before the agent spoke again "I understand that you recently met convicted cybercriminal Georgia Newport. Can I ask what you discussed?" He lent forwards, his forearms resting on his knees as he slapped the paper back down to the table beside him.

Martine's silence wasn't a good indicator either, as her blank face turned away "What did you discuss? Martine, I know you work with the U.N. so was it official business?" Bennett addressed in a taunting manner, like he was teasing her somehow.

A pair of shadows appeared at the end of the corridor, obscured by a heavenly white light from the windows, a passing helicopter with a searchlight, and then they became statues when Martine's eyes snapped to them. Back under the bars of glowing yellow above them, Bennett waited for her reply, but as expected the woman was hesitant.

They kept gazing at each other for minutes on end, it wasn't a connection, it was a oddly shaped understanding.

They were both different people but the same, simply trying to be different. "It was a classified meeting" Martine fed him, hoping that her plan wouldn't be too much of a nonstarter.

Unfortunately she was wrong "I have a lead that tells me you met with Newport...regarding an old U.N. Case? Am I right?" He tried to provoke her again, but now he had slipped up. Maybe if he didn't mention the Uganda Case, he would have avoided her suspicion, but now that he did she had a lot of good reasons to take this further.

Starting with his first mistake, Martine gave him a sly smirk across her lips, which he leant back at "You called me by my nickname, Martine. I've never used that name officially, not on any document you could find, so how would you know about it? And I'm under alias in this city, so if you knew anything about my presence here you'd know that" Martine began, cutting off Bennett again when he tried to protest.

"And if you're FBI, why didn't you show me a badge? A little identification could go a long way. I met Newport on a need-to-know basis, only two other people knew about that. Also judging by the goons you have stationed at the end of the corridor, I'm thinking you'd remove me by force if you got the chance. So let's cut the crap. You've got one chance to tell me who you really are, and why you're here...or I will make it my mission to end you" She threatened with a deathly tone.

The man sat on the bench came forward from his slouch, and twisted his neck up look menacingly into her face.

"Your confidence will be the death of you, Martine. But I won't lie to you" The man formerly known as Special Agent Bennett stood up, and buttoned his blazer, ushering his attendants to leave them.

He then offered and insisted that she come with him, and that Tommy would be well taken care of. Martine rose now too, Interested in the outcome and the intrigue of this man, but she couldn't doubt that a lingering fear for Tommy held onto her soul. He didn't have to force her like she had insinuated, she came willingly and without a word, believing this to be connected to her wider investigation.

They got down the bottom of the hallway, and the man indicated for them to turn right, towards the entrance stairway? Following, a suspicion rose within Martine which was finally satiated when they reached the car park entrance and the man beside her started talking, explaining himself at last, a vision of a black car rolling up to the hospital entrance caught her eye.

HOSPITAL ENTRANCE PV 05 - 03:30:33

"I know about you, Martine. I know about the work you did for the U.N. and I know the doubts you came to have about that work, I know that the U.N. right now thinks you're on a vacation due to work-stress, if only they knew the real truth" The man looked off into the distance as two more clearly armed men appeared at the doors when they walked into the entrance pavilion. All this security put Martine a little on edge, but the amount of innocent life happening around them gave her a shield for now. They wouldn't risk kidnapping her or harming her in front of a elderly grandmother and her coughing grandson that sat in the lounge to their right.

Stepping out under the pavilion's ceiling, the man gestured for them to walk out into the car park. The early morning had slowed to a crawl when they heard the distant cry of an ambulance's sirens, the sun was still hidden until it would begin to rise up in the tree-line that made a horizon, some hours from now. Leading her to the hospital's garden, the man stopped and turned towards her.

"You're right, of course. I'm not FBI. You can call me Mr Holloway, and I represent a company called Turndale-" His head was knocked back by her, she had slapped him. Huffing, he outstretched a hand to ward off his security, who had advanced the moment he was struck. Perhaps he deserved that. He had arranged all of this, hiring the Forger, manipulating Newport's group to take down other companies, he had ties to D-Crypt, Tarasovich, and what Georgia called 'Decima' so no one could have blamed Martine for lashing out. "I'm sure you have questions, and if it will bring you any peace, I can answer them" Holloway appeased, as the car behind him pulled up in a space between the pavilion and the garden.

"What do you know about Decima?" She said in a shaken yet stern tone, recovering from the shock of adrenaline the moment her hand swiped aggressively across his face. Unbuttoning his blazer, Holloway looked away from her, into the vast distance, a look of vision on his face.

"We are Decima. Decima Technologies, to be exact. Look, Martine, it's a sad day indeed when the U.N. has no use for a woman like you...you've been cast out, when was the last time that Westergaard gave you a real case?" He reasoned, and he was right. After her failure and the shame she took for the Uganda Case, it had been nothing but scraps. The revelation that Turndale was Decima didn't come as much of a surprise...they were most likely using Turndale and the username 'Parnassus' as a decoy in case anyone traced the information (which the Forger did) so, what was the motive behind attacking other companies?

"You hired Newport and Tarasovich...you knew I was hunting them yet you used them for your own gain!? Why?" Her voice stormed at him. Holloway's car had halted in front of the pavilion, as he looked back down to Martine.

Sighing like she was some greedy child, his voice pandered to her unknowing and needy spirit "You wanted justice for Obanno's regime, didn't you? You wanted revenge for the crimes against human decency that he committed. So we delivered you that justice, all of his Mercenaries are dead, Newport will be incarcerated for the rest of her life...and Tarasovich will be soon to follow" Holloway proclaimed, he didn't mention the dictator himself, so Martine assumed that the rumour of him dying in a missile strike was the truth.

But Holloway still didn't address why his company made use of those two criminals to target the competition, and according to Georgia, they were also set to target Decima, however self-destructive the tactics were, there was something that Holloway wasn't telling her.

"So why drag me out here? Now?! Of all times to tell me this" Martine grimaced, as the exposed lapels of Holloway's blazer began to flap sideways in the wind, she folded her arms, noticing that she was about as tall as he was; in heels no less.

"I brought you here because Thomas is your...crutch, Martine. Right now he is holding you back, you really believe those doctors are good enough for him? He's practically on life-support, and now you have a choice. Stay here, and rot alongside him...or join us at Decima, and do something that really matters" He crowed, smiling sickly. Was he right? She had left the entire investigation to see Tommy again, and now that she had her head pulled up from the sand, she was being offered a place with the puppet-master of this entire saga.

She would have hit him again, she wanted too, but had to resist the rampant urge. The choice shouldn't have been hard, but it was for her. She had been forgotten by the U.N. by now, as no one had even made an effort to contact her or try and to look for her.

Smartly, she did consider joining them too, it would be much more beneficial to get behind enemy lines...but it would come at a cost of having to become one of the faceless agents standing behind her. "We could offer you a lot more than just closure, you've already seen just a glimpse of what we've got going out there in the world. Do you really want to make a difference?" His eyes glinted at her as he spoke, but would she really leave Tommy for this stranger with ties to one of the worst periods of he life? Weighing her options, Holloway pressed down on the issue. "So...what do you say?"

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 8th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC INSTITUTE

FAC MAIN APLHA SC 1 - 13:59:45

In the darkened and pitch-black room of Samaritan's control centre, the rows of data analysts were hard at work decoding and monitoring the feeds that the supercomputer would send them. Flicking through the thousands of camera shots every minute, it was the job of a chief asset to oversee the room, normally it would have been Greer, but as he was yet to return from a business trip, the room was currently commanded by Murrow.

Standing tall over the office desks, Murrow was keeping his head high, watching the centre screen as the camera followed a traffic helicopter this time.

Murrow was a tough-jawed former army paratrooper, skilled in difficult combat situations and calm under pressure, but recently his cocky and headstrong mindset had put him on too many hard and inescapable missions, so being behind the technical side of the 'New World' wasn't what he had set out to do.

Samaritan however was content in viewing him through the webcam hidden at the top of the giant view-screen, cataloging him as ' **ASSET / / 434** ' the moving circle around his head rotated slowly as another identifying indicator appeared. ' **ASSET / / 029** ' was identified as she prowled in through the back door of the room. Murrow turned his lean-framed body to watch her enter from a distance.

"How was Japan?" He asked, yet she replied with another question.

"Where's Lambert?" Martine said with a deadpan snarky tone as she strutted to the nearest analyst to her left, holding a compact laptop in her hand.

She wore a natural brown leather jacket that covered her entire torso and neckline, with her golden and brown streaked hair held up in a tight bun, her legs were sheathed in black shining biker's leather, with platform heeled boots and a long studded belt across her waist. Along with a Smith & Wesson MP Shield handgun tucked into a pocket on her rear, she leant down to the operator and lifted her eyes once Murrow filled her in on the matters occurring.

"He's away, taking new recruits for their first taste of Samaritan's world" Murrow chimed, his shadowy suit making him blend in with the room's terminal ambiance.

Martine placed the laptop on the table next to the operator, and lowered her voice to a husky whisper, the operator was young, barely in his twenties, but Samaritan didn't take chances when selecting hard workers, so this boy must have been a genius of some description.

"This laptop contains data stolen from an old Japanese bunker held by the ISA, I had to kill two of their defective agents to get what's in this thing...so it better be good. I know it's important, it's some kind of encryption, it could be hiding images, a video feed or a location, anything. Find out for me" She said flatly, with a lethal purr, her voice always keeping a seductive edge to it. The operator nodded.

"Yes, Ma'am, I'll have it for you as soon as possible"

"Do it twice as fast and I'll be more thankful, hey, what's your name kid?" Martine singled him out, as Murrow loomed behind them now.

In a wavy and unsure manner, the technician bowed his eyes to her as he said his name.

"Wyatt, Ma'am" He admitted, connecting the laptop to his own industrial computer by way of a thin coil-like wire.

"Wyatt...alright, you'll do. Get to work, Wyatt" Martine's right eyelid flicked down as she winked at him with an honest smirk and pushed herself off his desk and strutted to stand by Murrow on his right side in the middle of the room.

The camera on the central control screen showed the inside of a office on a high-street law firm. Martine watched the bumbling intern trying to work the fax machine and paper printers, the brunette receptionist twirling a lock of her hair behind a pair of thick glasses, and the rushing staffers carrying piles of cardboard boxes stacked full of papers. Murrow looked down the computer on the table in front of them, lit by the single thin lamp that stoically guarded the computer's interface, he stuck his hands down into his pockets and raised his head up as Greer would often do before speaking.

"I'm surprised you had to eliminate those ISA agents, because Samaritan's been feeding the Pentagon relevant numbers ever since Control agreed to Travers' terms, personally, I wouldn't have killed two people that could have helped you" He reasoned.

Doubtingly, Martine cocked her head to the side, with a scoff, she straightened her back "Really? They had become obstructions, and therefore threats, and if I can mention they also abandoned the program they meant to serve. In any case, they were traitors, and they were suitably dealt with" Martine retorted just as Wyatt perked up behind them.

"Ma'am! Sir! I have something!" He yelled from across the room, they both surrounded him on each shoulder, leaning in to watch the screen of his computer as code started to crawl up and documents were shown.

"The encryption wasn't hard to break, but the information inside isn't exactly useful...or at least I don't think it is" He explained with a inquisitive look as he pressed a few more keys and the profile of a US Department Of Defense worker popped up "This is who the documents revolve around, Cayden Hayward. As far as I can understand it, he's a DOD contact for Control and her agency, and sent several classified files to them using this encryption" Wyatt divulged in a young American upbeat yet serious working tone, prompting Martine to think deeply.

Samaritan had instructed her to remain in Japan and hunt down this information, leading her straight back to US soil and now she's chasing a officer for the Department Of Defense? Why would the information on him even be found in an old bunker? Unless the ISA traitors were conspiring with him.

That was the most probable cause and reason for Samaritan's instructions, but there was something more, of Samaritan had detected another threat, why would it lead Martine on such a goose chase instead of just sending her directly to eliminate Hayward ? She was taken from the inner monologue when Wyatt addressed her and Murrow's gaze locked on her face.

On the mammoth-sized central screen his name and image appeared.

He was aged and experienced, with a dirty light brown hair colour and a gentle expression on his face, his service record touched everything the DOD had to offer, he was an investigator, a representative and a field agent.

His skin was fair and his face was warm and unthreatening, if Martine didn't know any better, she'd think that he was simply an irrelevant.

With a chin still harbouring peach-fuzz like hair, and a small mole on his right cheek, Cayden's pleasant and unsuspecting look was a cover, that was clear to see...but a cover for what? Wyatt may have been right, but Martine always wanted to see for herself, as a finger was lifted to her earpiece, Samaritan's voice boomed in as normal "NEW PRIORITY TARGET ACQUIRED. HUMAN SURVEILLANCE RECOMMENDED" It commanded. Curb-side duty, as Lambert would mockingly call it. Though not calling for his assassination immediately was surprising, confirming that there was more to Cayden Hayward than Martine first assumed.

ACCESSING ALTERNATE FEEDS...

LOCATION: Queens, NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: JFK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

ENTRANCE CAM ZONE # G07 - 14:15:23

Silently, a darkened Chevrolet SUV drove up the opening doors of the airport's exit foyer, exactly on time, the vehicle was accompanied by a government car, drab and brown in nature, it followed pitifully behind.

The SUV waited as a flow of civilians exited the airport, streaming from the doors, Zachary watched when groups of families poured out and into the cars parked neatly around them. It was an unseen sea of faces, hundreds of possible targets. As a human soldier for Samaritan, Zachary had to be vigilant at all times, constantly watching and since he was at the driver's seat, he was in the most vulnerable position in the car.

Wrapping his hands around the steering wheel, the other enforcers sat behind him and next to him looked equally ready for a battle.

The seven priority targets that Samaritan had been searching for still hadn't been exposed, and it was a moment like this that they could strike.

Since the Beta Test, Zachary had placed his faith in only two things; Greer and Samaritan. Ever since the mission to Mozambique and Greer's offer, Zachary had placed his loyalty in that man's hands, and so far he hadn't been disappointed with a single choice he had made.

Remaining as a statue in his place, his eyes caught a glimpse of a ball-like camera on a metal arm overreaching the entrance, cataloging the car as a whole, it listed the occupants inside.

 **ASSET / / 200**

 **ASSET / / 646**

 **ASSET / / 736**

Without warning the door opened to the right of the SUV and the infamous dark-suited Englishman stepped inside with a leer.

Zachary nodded his head "Welcome back, Sir. How was the flight?" He turned to view his employers stern and well-worn face.

Greer settled into his seat and removed his fedora hat and placed his briefcase in front of him "Satisfactory, quite satisfactory. I hope the city hasn't collapsed without me" Greer jostled with them, making his mouth twist into a sly smile.

His bodyguards reacted with simple chuckles as Zachary was designated to respond "Not yet, Sir. But I'm feeling better knowing that you'll be taking the reigns again back at the Steiner" Zachary told him, as he started the engine of the car.

Greer took a glance from the window and uttered a stuttering yet powerful declaration "Yes, indeed, I'm aware of Mr Lambert's brash command style all too well, I'll deal with him when I have the time. Is there any word from Martine?"

"She's retrieved information from Japan and is working on bringing Hayward in, we'll need to contact our Assets at the Pentagon if we're to do what Samaritan suggests" Zachary divulged as the car exited the airport's compound.

Knowingly, the temporary Admin and Primary Asset of Samaritan put a hand to his own chin, stroking it wisely, he adjusted his black and silver layered tie and made a thoughtful noise.

"Choosing the right individual will be hard...but Cayden Hayward is our best chance at succeeding in this endeavour. If he resists, then Martine has her orders" Greer said with a low tone.

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?" Zachary requested.

"Granted"

"Shouldn't you be the one acting as Samaritan's An-" He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence before Greer's hearty laughter cut up his argument.

"The Machine's greatest advantage is it's connection to Ms Groves, The Machine is a reflection of her, and she is a reflection of it. I may have brought Samaritan online...but I'm not fit to make direct contact as Ms Groves does...that requires someone far younger" Greer admitted, though DOD official Cayden Hayward isn't exactly who Zachary would have selected as he drove the car out onto the open road.

The government car behind them came ever closer to their back bumper, so much that Greer became interested "Is our dear Senator tailing us again?" He asked in a hostile tone of phrase, just as the enforcer sat next to the Admin spoke too, in a Northern American accent.

"Garrison is concerned about Samaritan's public asset, Lars Rasmussen...as he has recently faced a tribunal and is set to walk away free of charge" the bodyguard emphasised.

Shrugging, Zachary called back to his employer "Want us to eliminate him?" As the tall man addressed him, Greer pulled a smartphone from his jacket's pocket and spoke into the open air "Is Rasmussen's involvement necessary?" On the phone screen below him, the single red triangle faded and reappeared once every slow second, as three dots buffered, eventually coming out with:

PUBLIC ASSET NECESSARY FOR SECOND STAGE...

PUBLIC ASSET IN USE...AWAITING ANALOG INTERFACE


	15. Chapter 15: Fateful Trigger

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: MARCH 31st 2014

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: THE PENTAGON [U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENCE]

DOD HELI DC 1490 - 09:16:34

HALLWAY CAM 4 ZONE 1 - 09:16:49

Light-footed down the carpeted corridors of the Pentagon, the building was easy to get lost in, so many winding and endlessly repeating corners, people that could be seen five or six times a day. A place that you didn't want to make enemies in. The hub for the DOD had been the secret operating room for the ISA since Northern Lights came online and the agency was assigned to work the relevant numbers.

Research had been slow lately, requiring more human intelligence, so that's where their partners at the DOD came in. Today, the corridors of The Pentagon were full of life, a festival of secrecy and underhand deals. In between it all, was the newly recruited Agent Brooks.

A former soldier of the National Guard, Brooks was a woman who always wanted to see action, but a injury in an Afghanistan training camp reduced her to serving the guard at home in the U.S. for another six years. She had a inconspicuous attractiveness about her, it was kind of an understated beauty, perhaps it was because she was so disarmingly unaware of her prettiness. Her pink and pastel-coloured skin was completely flawless.

She was all about simplicity, making things easy, helping those around her to relax and be more at ease.

Perhaps that was why she excelled as a undercover agent, the causal nature and relationships she had could be used in amazing ways. When she smiled and laughed it was reassuring, not threatening as most of her predecessors prided themselves on.

But it would be a good thing to get out of this corridor, as military commanders and hurrying staffers rushed by her, trudging down the less-than-ambient brown halls. With crystalline blue eyes and an a tidy pony tail of blonde hair, hanging back so much that it pulled the rest of her hair into a drawn back wave of golden strands. Brooks hated wearing such formal attire, but she could hardly walk into Mr Hayward's office with bloody combat boots, a broken arm and a pistol at her hip.

The only evidence if her latest mission was a single clear plastic folder in her hand, spotted with the red blood of a man caught in the crossfire. She had been dispatched with a team of other ISA recruits to a mission in Lagos, they had lost a couple, and the survivors were sent back to the Research terminals, with Brooks being the agent assigned to give the report to their ranking DOD official. Clad in a black suit jacket and buttoned-up shirt of a similar colour, Brooks had her left arm in a soft blue sling, as her right hand held the surviving folder with her report inside. Striding towards the office, she tucked the folder under her arm and used her free and unrestricted arm to grab the bronze door knob and push open the white office doors.

"Brooks. God, I thought you were still in Lagos" Grice grumbled, immediately seeing the sling and the bruising on the top of her head.

He stood bolt upright from the comfy armchair in the meeting lounge of the office and went to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "I'm fine, Agent Grice, and I was one of the lucky ones" Brooks whispered just loud enough for him to hear, as they weren't alone.

Grice was a good man, honourable and brave, but loyal, almost too loyal to go beyond what was told of him. However, to those who knew him honestly, he'd often break rank or have a rebellious streak, whenever he believed an order to be morally wrong.

He sheltered Brooks in his arms for a minute, they had a connection ever since the agency's training, the man had been trained under Shaw, who was a proficient and very effective operator before her death (or at least, that's what Brooks had been told, as she was trained the more traditional way) but they had been radio silent since Brooks left to Lagos with twenty other recruits and a handful of social security numbers.

In the waiting room, they were faced with something unknown, policy and formality. In the ISA, the chain of command and orders was the only thing that would change, but in this world, everything was interchangeable. The waiting room was a plastered off-white, with paintings of old buildings and awards on the walls. A bottle of old liquor stood on a table, and a collection of armchairs were arranged by the door.

Leading Brooks into one of the comfy chairs, Grice placed his hands on his hips and turned to Hayward's Secretary, a bearded man called Lawrence. "Come on, I've been out here for ten minutes now, what can Cayden be doing that's so important?" He moaned as the doors to their right remained shut.

Grice was a stubbled and scruffy man, dressed in a dark red undershirt and black slim coat, he strode the room in his ripped jeans, picking up a framed picture of Hayward kneeling down on the bank of a lake, beside his ten-year-old son. Reflecting on her last mission, the blonde agent crossed her legs, heels always made her feel uncomfortable, but not anymore uncomfortable than how this womanly suit felt on her body that was more used to combat gear and a rifle on her back. She could lament all she wanted, in hindsight, it was useless.

This was a world of balance now, between action and democracy, sometimes you needed both in order to proceed, but one could easily hinder the other, that was the line that Hayward walked, so perhaps Grice shouldn't give him that much disrespect.

Without warning, the Office doors swung open, prompting Lawrence to stand up and Grice to set down the picture frame at once.

Cayden Hayward was a humble and well-meaning DOD Officer, he would often make tough decisions in the places of powerful men and women, but he had his reasons for everything, and unlike most people, he had a family. However to him, his connection to his wife and son is what motivated him the most.

Grice stayed to the back of the room, leaning on the wall as he folded his arms. Handing a phone to his secretary, Cayden's friendly face went somber as he laid eyes on Brooks "It was true, then?" He combed a hand through the back of his hair and sighed.

She didn't answer and pulled herself to her feet (a pair of hastily grabbed, lacklustre black heels) "Yes, Sir, it was true. The information was good, but I wish I had seen it sooner" Brooks finally revealed, outstretching the clear dossier that was flecked in spots of blood. Her supervisor frowned when accepting it, his fitting and lean light grey suit curving with his arm as he grabbed the folder. "I didn't expect Agent Stoneridge to strike when he did, we had been watching him for a while...but I am sorry about your companions, such young recruits don't deserve to die" Cayden admitted, glancing to the floor with the folder in both hands. Placing the dossier on the table in front of his secretary, Hayward then acknowledged Grice, who had been non-characteristically unnoticeable and verbal.

The raggedy agent stepped into the light from his position with his back to the wall.

"Hello, Devon. It's been too long, what can I do for you today?" He opened with politely, turning to face him.

A flash of hesitation came over Devon's face, and Brooks was about to step in until he shook it off and his grimace returned.

"Emerald squadron. I heard from Foster that they're retiring Emerald Squadron, I've got a couple of good friends in that team, care to explain yourself, if you're involved?" Grice paced forwards to stand eye-to-eye with Cayden, who was remarkably calm.

Personally, Brooks had been a recruit in the ISA for nearly five months, and even she had heard of the many colour-coded operator teams sent by Control to neutralise the Relevant Threats. Indigo, Crimson, and now Emerald. Backing away from the conversation, her vision focussed on the family pictures littering the tables and desks inside Hayward's personal office.

"You can't immediately suspect me, Devon. It could have been anyone, Control, Director Gibbons, Agent Roberts, someone at the Office Of Special Counsel, anyone" Hayward deflected, lowering his hands to his sides. Grice didn't let go of his argument that easily, as it was clear he had been waiting here for a long time.

"Don't bullshit me, Hayward. I contacted the Office Of Special Counsel, a representative told me that the order to disband Emerald Squad was signed by a Department Of Defence Officer...it was you, Cayden" Grice howled, getting into the man's personal space, Lawrence reached a hand over to try and calm things, but Cayden waved him away.

"Please, there's no need for intimidation Devon, I'm sure this can be worked out as-" Hayward reasoned, but the stubbled agent across from him cut him off when speaking, a spitting scoff escaping his mouth "Oh I haven't tried to be intimidating yet..." He threatened vaguely.

This was strange to see, sure, Brooks had heard of the times where the normally loyal and utterly lionhearted Grice would leap into battle to save his superiors, however here the story was quite different as the man looked ready to assault Officer Hayward at any chance he got.

"Agent Grice, everything I did, I did with good reason. This is strictly classified information, but if it will give you any rest tonight, I'm willing to allow you access on this occasion. Mr Llewellyn" Cayden signalled with a indication of the eye, Lawrence moved on Brooks, a hand sliding to her back and pushing her to the door.

With soft words, he tried to remove her, even opting to open the door ajar before Devon snapped his fingers aggressively.

"No. No, Brooks stays" He made clear as he pointed to her, gesturing her back into the room.

They had met a few times before this, and Grice (being the elder of the two) would always ensure that Brooks had everything she needed, and was being taken care of and had the correct mission, they had a relationship, not a romantic one, but what Brooks saw as a brother-sister type connection. Hayward folded and told his secretary to bring her back in. Taking a breath, and turning his head to look up at the camera in the corner, Cayden began to divulge the information.

"Control and I had reason to believe that a member of Emerald Team had become compromised" Hayward opened. It seemed that his secretary already knew this, as his reaction was minimal, unlike Brooks and Grice. "Who was it? What had they done?" Devon demanded to know, while Brooks stepped beside him, awash with repressed rage.

Not only was the information kept from them, but it was done without a single word.

Perhaps Brooks was finally realising that this was the business she was getting into, and once she was in, there was no getting out of it, as long as she was useful.

Hayward kept a calm demeanour, and his voice kept a undertone of a patronising glare to it "After a mission to Moscow, one of Emerald's team members became connected with a FSB conspiracy, and we couldn't allow anyone to leak out classified intel to the Kremlin, so to avoid internal affairs linking the traitor to us, we disbanded the squadron, so the traitor would be treated as a independent party" Cayden informed them.

He still refused to name the agent, or when this happened, as that was probably even worse than just telling them a vague description of what took place.

"You expect us to believe that? I wanna hear it from Control, not you" Grice spat. Brooks touched his arm lightly, resting her hand on the top of his forearm, gave him a warm smile when he turned back to her. "You should know by now that you don't get to speak to Control, besides they're meeting with Senator Garrison, and I wouldn't dare interrupt them if I was you" Hayward cautioned, as the three of them stood in complete tension. Devon make a low and throaty sound, trying to air the room a little before he spoke "Are you sure? Did Langley tell you this?" He doubted, shaking his head somewhat while Brooks remained silent, her eyes dancing from Hayward to Devon.

"No, we were informed by a source in the CIA, related to our Relevant numbers program" Cayden shuffled in his stance, while eyeing another picture of him and his son behind Brooks on a mahogany mantelpiece.

"That is all. In good conscience I can't say anymore, loose lips sink ships, after all" He negated to elaborate at all, as much as Grice tried to encourage him, but he wouldn't threaten him again. Hayward had jurisdiction over a lot in the ISA, enough to be a hazard and a hinderance, and he wouldn't be shy about linking the cause of his frustration to Crimson 6A. Backing up to the door, Grice folded his hands behind his back.

"Understood, Sir. But if you won't be responsive, I'll do my own research..." He mumbled, but Brooks knew what he'd do.

Rallying other agents was his best talent, it's what got them through all of perilous missions that she heard so much about; and more importantly the big moment where Grace would inspire them with a call-to-action or a heroic gesture.

Brooks did try to grab him by the arm gently, but he swung from the room too quickly, a look of disdain on his face, he grappled for his phone in his pocket and lifted it to his ear.

"Yes, I'd like to speak to Agent Davenport and Myers if you-" Devon's final words were cut off by Cayden, who slammed the door in a polite and resentful manner.

"Thank you for your report, Agent Brooks. I will see to it that it gets processed, meanwhile, I must also congratulate you for completing your advanced combat training, however tragic, you have passed" He smiled while his secretary moved the report from his desk into Hayward's own private office. That meant a lot to her, finally succeeding and hopefully being moved into the next stage, an actual ISA Operation's group.

Brooks withheld her excitement for the time being, just nodding and bowing her head. "We did have plans to move you into Indigo or Amber Squad, but after what just happened with Grice, I'm going to request that you join Crimson" Hayward exulted.

As they stood face-to-face, the reasoning was obvious, Brooks had a connection with Grice, and command was going to use that in whatever way they could. She silently accepted her post, and then winced once her back was turned to Cayden, as the sling that held her arm tightened a little.

Thinking of her next move, she felt Lawrence's gaze follow her as she pulled open the door and shut it behind her. Now leaning backwards on it, Brooks sighed to herself, now she had become something that mattered. Wether she wanted to be or not.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 9th 2014

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: UNITED STATES SUPREME COURT OF JUSTICE

PRI. LOUNGE CAM 5 - 09:59:22

Inside a private lounge in the court building, the brown wooden carved walls formed a barrier of a lawmaker's superiority. The bumbling Senator's carrying briefcases and sitting down in the afternoon for a late lunch was a normal sight. The tables were all made of the most expensive and rounded wood, only five or six tables were laid around this lounge, with padded wooden chairs that surrounded each table.

Certain lowly armchairs also rested next to drinking tables and two doors on either side of the room made a handy entrance and exit. At the table nearest to the exit, two figures were conversing over a array of papers, bank files, and newspaper clippings.

A man and a woman, both lit by the antique lamps that sat on each table and the central chandelier, it looked like some exclusive and hidden club, the woman at the table flips through some paperwork, while the smartly dressed man opposite fingered his brow, massaging his own temple with his forefinger. Judge Lockwood huffed, and raised her eyes judgementally to the Congressman, who was helping her in arranging a new case against the current public enemy number one of the American justice system; Lars Rasmussen.

Since the mockery of a hearing and inquiry, the businessman had retired to his estate in Crestwood, Washington. Staying out of the Danish Embassy for once wasn't a cautious move, it was a taunting gesture. Moving himself to open territory, yet no one had moved on his home yet.

The Congressman licked his fingertip to turn the next page of the document he was reading.

"This FBI report states that Rasmussen studied Media and Economics in Copenhagen, but never graduated, instead he hired a web of hackers and fraudsters to create a fake reputation and academic credentials, including a business MBA and a PhD in Microeconomics" Congressman Macallen read from the report, his eyes scanning down the page. Taking a pen from beside his hand and writing down some notes, he suspiciously continued reading.

"It's debated, but he credited those credentials to a place called 'Koch University' and even that has several registered staff members, but even those could be actors, paid by a teenage Rasmussen" Macallen theorised.

"Careful, Peter, there's facts and then there's conspiracy. I know you had stakes in one of his banks, too, but don't let that cloud your good conscience" Judy reassured him, having enlisted the man to help due to his great knowledge of law and his trustworthy leading-man like attitude, he was handsome enough to pull it off, with a picturesque jawline and a head of youthful brown hair, he flipped passed a couple of other pages in the file, and finally stopped again.

"I had too much money in one of his banks, I was even trying to outsource it until the entire organisation shut down" Peter sneered, still bitter about his failed overseas transactions and the disappearance of one of his investment contacts, Bianco.

The only thing they could do was to end Rasmussen here and now, trying to find something concrete to put him away, other than half-followed leads. But it hadn't been easy, even as they spoke the Zenith-Media Corporation had been smearing the Supreme Court for weeks, headlining with compromising pictures of female Senators, scandals relating to other Judges, even managing to have Congressman Wright arrested on corruption charges (which plastered a double-page spread on one of the more political tabloids) even a radio station owned by the extended LHR-Media Group had been transmitting worrying articles and interviews with people who claim to work on the inside at the Courts, and how many deadly deals go on behind closed doors and sealed walls.

Even Judy couldn't avoid all of that. "We need clear, non-rebuttable evidence, skip the agency files, check the deeper records" She recommended.

Sticking to her advice, they broke out the bank account histories and records, all taken from the businessman's many workplaces, starting in the U.K. they quickly found records of Rasmussen spoofing transfers, and then years later coming to suddenly earn thousands from a Chinese hedge fund.

But the final nail in their investigation's coffin was when he took up a job as a FCO for one of Morocco's biggest banks, only to embezzle nearly eight billion dollars from the banks reserve funding, including people's accounts. After he was summoned to court, he had the stock and any U.S. owned banks frozen, leading to the shutdown of many American citizen's accounts too.

"There. That's it" Peter grinned, gushing with smug pride, he was restraining himself from yelling when a black-suited man approached him.

"Congressman, your car is waiting outside" the faceless suit said in a dreary tone, Peter looked up at him, stunned. "I didn't order a car" He responded, keeping composure.

"Oh, but you did, Mr Macallen" Lars Rasmussen calmly divulged, standing in the centre of the entrance doorway.

He was as gigantic as ever, but as thin as a beanpole. The entire lounge had now been emptied, and the it looked like the goon that stood in front of Peter had been cloned and replicated, as four almost identical men stood in each corner, hands behind their backs.

The ghoul of a corporate figure loomed towards their table, resting by a armchair for the minute as he dusted his ever-present spectacles before fitting them neatly to his face.

Begrudgingly, Macallen picked up his briefcase and whispered something to Judge Lockwood, before shooting Rasmussen an evil eye. Before he even left out of the door, Samaritan's ever-present diagnostic had just began running.

[SUSPECT IDENTIFIED]

DESIGNATION: **DEVIANT**

NAME: MACALLEN JR, PETER

DOB: 30/12/1983

SSN: XXX-XX-2671

POSITION: CONGRESSMAN, U.S. CONGRESS

DIAGNOSIS: -ATTENTION DEFICIT DISORDER

-SELF-DELETING TEXTS

-MULTIPLE TRAFFIC VIOLATIONS

-KNOWN NON-US CONTACT

TRANSGRESSIONS: **ANALYSING...**

As his men started to escort the fleeing Congressman, Rasmussen grabbed his chair from the back and pulled it towards him once he sauntered up to the table, his lips twisting up at the corners, his guards still having to stand around Macallen before he would just walk through the door, a glare honing in on the foreign individual as he reached for a phone in his back pocket, one of the attendants at the end of the room followed Macallen with some parting words.

"Your car is waiting outside, Sir, see you tomorrow" They said politely, as the Congressman gave a snarling grimace to the floor, by then, Samaritan's analysing had concluded.

Producing a list in red text, Rasmussen read it line to line before adjusting the chair to sit down beside Judge Lockwood.

TRANSGRESSIONS:

 **OFFICIAL MISCONDUCT: 113 COUNTS**

 **GENERAL MISDEMEANOUR: 71 COUNTS**

 **BRIBE RECEIVING: 28 COUNTS**

 **CONSPIRACY TO SUBVERT THE CONSTITUTION: 179 COUNTS**

 **ABUSE OF ALCOHOL: 85 COUNTS**

CONCLUSION: POSSIBLE THREAT-

 **REEVALUATING IDENTIFICATION...**

MACALLEN JR, PETER

CONGRESSMAN, U.S. CONGRESS

 **OBSTRUCTIONIST**

"May I join you?" Rasmussen asked, it might as well have been a rhetorical question as he saddled up on a chair next to her, his guards flanking each door. Sliding into Peter's former seat and he reaches out to grasp some of the papers, brushing them aside and clearing the mess to rest his clasped hands down on the table.

"Mr Rasmussen, you understand that outside of the court we are to have no contact, in any form" She warned him, sliding the important and more sensitive evidence towards her chest.

Smiling, the man across from her nodded frequently, and made a waving hand gesture, like he was thinking of topics to speak about.

"In March of 2012 you were the judge at the trial of Tara Verlander, who was arrested and tried for forging checks and multiple insurance frauds by using a interchangeable system of aliases...the evidence was damming, irrefutable, some would say blindingly obvious. Yet she walked free, why?" Rasmussen wondered mockingly, tucking his dusting-rag back into a pocket in his blazer.

His hand lingered near her own, trying to invade, she refused to give him a rise or even concede.

"There were extenuating circumstances" she cleared up, not willing to say any more to so many open ears. Rasmussen clicked his tongue in a queer sound.

"She was related to you, wasn't she? It was a loose connection, but I managed to find it, and if I can find it, then so can any journalist" He threatened, grabbing her hand and pinning it against the table, making Lockwood flinch and turn her head away from his cold glare.

"The only document linking you to her is a family tree that your uncle possesses...however, it's currently in my own possession" Rasmussen whispered loud enough for her to hear, he continued without a single stumble in his wording "It's not just Verlander, though, we have much more than that, would you like to-" He was then cut short by a daring act by the woman opposite, she shook her hand from his and cringed, looking back to the glistening beads of disgusting sweat that covered her palm "Your hand is perspiring" She said boldly, was he nervous? Or just paranoid?

"Oh, quite, I'm afraid. Constantly. It's a condition, palmar-hyperhidrosis" Rasmussen flicked his hand to the floor, and checked his wristwatch.

Lowering his eyes from her to check the time, he recoiled back in his seat. Lockwood shifted in her own chair, crossing her legs with the illusion of remaining calm, while her inner monologue worried, she was surrounded by his security, but there was still hope for her yet.

Coughing to clear the air, Judy wiped down her hand on a tissue, and continued "This isn't necessary, Mr Rasmussen, you don't need to be here" She declared. But he had an answer for that too, unsurprisingly.

Unraveling his hands from under the table, his fingers crawled nearer to the other side of the table, and the papers that Lockwood guarded "What...is that?" Rasmussen teased the edges of the papers, about to flip it over, but snapped out and latched onto her wrist, pulling it closer towards him "Rive Gauche? That's a bit young for you, isn't it? I'm not surprised, it's awfully predictable for-" He sniffed at her wrist for a second before relaxing his grip, when Judy pulled back her hand once again and went for the hidden alarm button under the table, about to press it, until one of Rasmussen's suited thugs loomed before her with a warm breath.

"Go on, then. Call the authorities...no? Because now there are...extenuating circumstances. I have the document proving your nepotism, and now I have you" Rasmussen rubbed his fingers together as he spoke, never breaking the eye contact with her, even when she looked away. "So it's blackmail?" Judy commented, feeling the downwards glances of the private security around her.

Rasmussen made a low hiss like some coiled viper.

"Of course it isn't blackmail...this is...something more, ownership, perhaps" He reasoned, pulling a blackened flip-phone from his pocket, he took the next shockingly slow seconds to explain himself.

"In the next 24 hours, my agent, Barrett, will contact you on this cellular device, he will explain the necessary steps you need to complete to gain access to the certain...connecting document. And I give you my assurance that I will not leak this to the press, as long as you cooperate" Rasmussen stood from the table finally, and went to address his aide until Judy spoke up.

"And what is your assurance worth, Mr Rasmussen?"

"Very little, Judge Lockwood. Her bill and car travel is on me, see to it Mr Stamper" Rasmussen ordered his aide, who bowed and followed him from the room, leaving the deal and terms to stew with Judy, now the choice was with her as the ball-like camera that hugged the wall rotated to eye her, scanning for a second, a circular reticle appeared around her head, two targeting lines honed in on each side of her head, and two bracket-like lines began to swivel around with a whirring noise, as a description of different identification lines appeared. Realising what had happened, Samaritan flicked one of the lines to an unwilling Asset's secondary function.

[SUSPECT IDENTIFIED]

DESIGNATION: **DEVIANT** \- **REEVALUATING IDENTIFICATION** -

DESIGNATION: **PROXY**

NAME: LOCKWOOD, JUDY F.

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

LOCATION: 38.8906° N / -77.0044° W

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: OCTOBER 2nd 2004

PRECISE LOCATION: RIKERS ISLAND

RIKERS PERIM CAM 10 - 07:09:51

CELL BLOCK N. PHONE ROOM CAM A03 - 07:10:05

Grabbing the phone like she'd never encountered one before, it would be a surreal experience, like she was a ghost and was contacting someone from beyond the grave. Pressing the first number on the pay-phone like installation, Georgia felt a rush of heat hit her chest and face, was she really doing this? As she stood in the phone room of the guard's quarters, she waited a little before hitting the next number.

The room she stood in was a plain grey, meant to inspire no emotion, simply the desire to enforce or comply. Slotting a quarter or two into the payphone beforehand, she punched in the rest of the number sequence. Listening to the dreary ringing of the phone, Georgia leant on the wall with the phone in between her tilted head and shoulder. With her lip cut and a bruise along her left arm, an accented voice garbled through the other end of the line.

"Dean Moran, pest control, how can I help?" The voice opened with a grumble, Georgia rolled her eyes at the routine and responded with the appropriate s-o-s phrase (which she had memorised)

"There's a detective in apartment B, he tells me you need a professor" Georgia cooed.

"Georgia...how-"

"Hello Nazarov. Did you miss me?" Georgia Newport said as she rested her hand on her hip, surrounded by a group of bludgeoned prison guards and their weapons, strewn out across the room.

He recognised her voice, even after nearly a month in prison, he was still thinking about her.

He tried to scoff but didn't make it through the whole gesture before he started talking "I told you that I was proud of you, Georgia. Now, how are you even making this call?" He guffawed, breaking the cold facade for only a moment that Georgia picked up on, she heard a bloodied guard stir and her free hand crawled to the Glock 19 on the desk next to her, but relaxed when the guard slipped back into his forced unconscious state.

"I had an interesting meeting with someone a couple of days ago, someone who I think you should see for yourself" She jumped straight into business, eager to get to the chase. She was sure that Nazarov would want her to think like he would, only about the mission; grateful to those on his team but not that sympathetic to them either.

Twirling her finger around the phone cable, Georgia heard Tarasovich's grunt, telling her to carry on talking, a wordless phrase, and something that he would do often.

"I was interviewed by a Ms Wheeler from the Office Of Intergovernmental Affairs. She knew about Obanno, Massey and Colorado" Georgia hesitated just long enough for her partner to come in with his own speculation "Was she a Fed? Or some CIA lapdog?" He barked through the phone, as another voice leaned in beside his own.

Georgia knew that Colorado was a very bad memory for Nazarov, it wasn't much time after 'Parnassus' became Nazarov's herald, sending them after a tyrant like Greer and a empire like Decima, so he would feel sunken when his secret contact had been revealed somehow. Maybe she had felt regret over telling the woman called Wheeler about Decima and the secrets of their operation, but the dumbfounded girl couldn't possibly have any idea about how to use those facts, or where to look next.

"Neither, probably, but I wouldn't rule it out. But what she knows already could be a problem, not just for us, but for Parnassus too" Georgia declared.

"Colorado and Stuttgart were unfortunate, but if this Wheeler keeps asking these questions, she'll eventually find someone who can give her more than answers, and our operation could become jeopardised. I'll see what I can do, it might take a while, but hopefully Dillinger and Abbott are still good for one last job" Nazarov chuckled.

Sounding more unhinged than normal, Nazarov was heard mumbling to the voice next to him, and Georgia raised a tinted eyebrow, why would he hire more known Mercenaries? Taking this Wheeler out quickly and without a fuss would be the best course of action, a thought of what dark desire had gotten into Venator crossed her mind, until a sound of a distant alarm flaring in the prison caught her attention, Georgia swore to herself and picked up the Glock again "Just get it done, Nazarov, I've got my own problems. I'll see you on the other side" Newport promised, slamming down the corded-phone without waiting for a reply, and she rose her arm to the glass window in the room, looking down the sights of the handgun to the corridor as a group of baton and assault-rifle wielding guards advanced on her.

Taking what could have been her last few steps and her last breath, Georgia pulled the fateful trigger.

 _Author's Epilogue: Thanks again for your patience! This is the halfway point of the second instalment of this story, and I'm quite enjoying building it up. I just hope that I don't get swamped by work and life again and have to take a couple of days before I write anything, so do feel free to leave reviews and PM's until I get back...Get back from where you might ask? New York! The world of POI itself! I'm unbelievably excited for my overdue holiday, so I'll let you all know how it goes! (Also, that one guy/girl who binged my entire story on October 1st - you know who you are - you're absolutely amazing) but once again, I thank the POI Fanfic Community, and all my lovely viewers for their attention._

 _Here's to the next 5 Chapters! And my fateful visit to Queensbridge Park!_

 _Love_

 _Alongusername_


	16. Chapter 16: Hayward

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: OCTOBER 1st 2004

LOCATION: Inwood, The Bronx, NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: NEW YORK PRESBYTERIAN - THE ALLEN HOSPITAL

HOSPITAL ENTRANCE PV 05 - 03:31:02

"So...what do you say?" Holloway said, standing tall against Martine, glancing down to her.

"...No"

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: FEBRUARY 4th 2005

LOCATION: Inwood, The Bronx, NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: NEW YORK PRESBYTERIAN - THE ALLEN HOSPITAL

2 TAH W IN. WARD ROOM 04 - 05:59:49

Another lowly beep of the heart-rate monitor kept her awake beside her once engaged lover. The time had forgotten her and she had forgotten it all together, there was nothing but the white room and her own black-clad figure. The American skyline was just waking up when Tommy was still asleep, according to his doctors he had been conscious, but for her own safety and peace of mind Martine was never in the room when that happened.

Only returning to him once he slept. Another thing she had forgotten was the controversy and emotional painful struggle of the U.N. as she was 'released' due to extended leave, though she knew that Westergaard wanted her gone the moment she failed to deliver on the Uganda Case and made a fool of herself. Connor had soared high into the ranks as he deserved and was now working at the Headquarters in Manhattan.

Meanwhile, Tommy's chest heaved as he slept, the locket still set in his gown pocket, Martine had refused to take any advice on his continued critical condition, especially from the people that called themselves experts on such a subject. Ever since her childhood in The Bronx she'd always found her own way; using people, sure, but just for her own means. It was her character, trying to change just wasn't apart of her either, she was too stubborn for anything else.

Leaning forward in her black turtleneck sweater and some old dark jeans, a short sigh escaped her for a second. How long had been sitting here? The days had washed into one another, and now it was one long and painful existence alongside her perhaps crippled and amnesia-ridden lover, if he was even that lucky. The injury had taken a bigger toll on Tommy than Martine had first thought, a car crash was not something that would put someone out of commission for this long, she considered. The sun was starting to creep over the horizon and the constant car-horns had begun outside along with a few distant cries of speeding ambulances.

Doctor Nolan hadn't shown up for at least two days, but the rather manly nurse was constant, but silent. A glance back at the door, and there had been no change in the hallway, though she didn't expect anything either, what was she even looking for? Company? The only relationship she had with anyone in the hospital was lying on the bed in front of her with an IV jammed into his arm. She knew herself what she was looking for though, and she had ruined her chance for that back at the pavilion.

Martine hadn't forgotten what Holloway had told her, or what he looked like either, the way he'd move, and how he would look down at her, with all that knowledge in his head. After the work she had been dropped into with D-Crypt, and then Tarasovich, Turndale and Decima, it was finally good to clear her head, after all she didn't believe that she was missing out on much.

But it was a chance for change, something she needed after The Hague and what happened with the Uganda Case. All her mind did was scream back to her when she passed over that thought - she should have forgotten about it by now, but all she could do was remember.

Tommy was still a statue of a man, just as still, he had gotten paler and his hair more thin, but that could have been the atmosphere of the room, the yellow-green stain of the lights and the way it would reflect off the walls and the floor, that would turn Martine's stomach lately, it was anything but the fear of loosing someone she had been holding onto for so long, without anyone even thinking of supporting her.

A flicker of the lights jarred Martine into remaining awake, but any longer asleep and she could risk being around when Tommy would wake, and therefore exposing her presence to him, and then she'd have too much explaining to do. The traffic outside built, it would happen faster and faster day after day. With daylight, the city would rise full of noise pollution and smoke worse than an average fog or mist.

She hadn't ate for days, either, keeping her bowels steady with a glass of water at least three or four times a day was enough for now. But it couldn't sustain her at all. Now that the air had cleared about ten minutes later, a screech was heard outside the main foyer and parking lot of the hospital, as if a car had come to a sudden stop, Martine's eyebrows flicked up, but came back to rest when the sound dissipated. She was now sat away from the door with her back facing it, her eyes focused on the view from the half-opened window and Tommy's currently unconscious body, and at the moment, the silence was relaxing.

Then in sequence once again and exactly on time, another dim and lowly beep of the heart-rate monitor kept her awake beside her once known companion. Their childhood was easy to reminisce on now that they were alone with each other, so many wasted days just talking or exploring a district just a little further than their neighbourhood. But that time was far gone now.

Her eyelids held a long blink while Tommy remained in his slumber, snoring every few minutes, but he had stopped currently.

Now aside from the traffic and the ambulances, she had peace. The incoming and blissful silence caressed her skin like a cool summery breeze, smoothing her soul, taking away her many jagged edges. It had been one hell of a rough morning for her. But in the darker recesses of her mind, the silence gnawed at her insides.

It hung in the air like a suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. Like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything, not just a beep or a car passing. It was poisonous in it's nothingness, cruelly underscoring how vapid and irrelevant the interactions had become. Now suddenly it had become eerily unnatural, like a dawn devoid of birdsong.

The sharp turning of the door handle forced Martine to cower back in her chair like an act of normality, pretending to be much more awake than she was, she flexed her tongue and opened her mouth to speak "Dr Nolan, I was-"

She barely finished before the click of a firearm touched the back of her head "Don't turn around. Stand up, and step towards the left wall, now" a husky American voice told her.

Martine slowly did as the clearly Male voice told her, as the crisp noise of polished footwear touched the floor; there was another assailant. Moving towards the wall, she glanced towards the men, both casually suited, wielding Browning Hi-Power handguns and with their faces unmasked, she used the light from the half-open window to scope their features.

One was stocky, and black of hair, he was pacing away from Martine and near Tommy's bed. With a raise of his gun, the second man was now facing her back, but he was leaner in the weight of his steps, and a flash of ginger-blonde hair caught Martine's eye.

Both wore dark clothes, dress-shirts and flat shoes, with holsters at their sides. The assassins patrolled the room, before the leaner one leaned into her shoulder, as Martine stared towards the empty wall, no emotion from her face "The Venator sends his regards, Wheeler" He chuckled in a whisper, aiming the weapon to her back. Boldly, Martine turned around to face him and his sick smirk, not a single fleck of emotion on her face, if this was her end, she was strangely contemplating it. Her current state of wasting away forced her to stare into the barrel of the gun, just as she saw Tommy's eyelids flicker.

Grabbing the barrel, Martine launched a punch into the face of her close-up assassin, pushing the gun away for a second before grabbing it herself (she had never actually held one before, and it was surprisingly heavier than she expected) gripping the handle, she raised it to the man in front of her, the shocked attacker then quickly reached for a blade tucked into his combat boot, until his companion lowered his own weapon.

"Stand down, Dillinger" He cautioned, hovering the tip of his own firearm to Tommy's head.

"Put down the gun, or your boyfriend eats a bullet" The second man threatened to her in a sinister voice, pulling the hammer down on his handgun with his thumb. Martine coldly glanced at him, then to Tommy who had fell back to sleep, somehow not hearing the struggle right in front of him.

In contrast, Dillinger stepped back, allowing his friend to now have control. The man held his weapon to Tommy's head, standing in front of the exposed window at the side of her lover's bed. Not wanting to provoke a gunshot and drawing attention to herself, Martine began to crouch to her knees, taking her finger off the trigger, she placed the metal handgun to the shining floor with a clack. "Now slide it towards my compatriot" The man with the gun to Tommy instructed her, and she did as he said, pushing it towards Dillinger, who leant down too to pick it up as it touched his feet.

Just as he did this, a shattering sound broke the window of glass before Martine or Dillinger could look back up, but Martine instantly recognised the sound. A gunshot would normally crack into the air as loud as thunder and with the raw power of a storm. But these were suppressed, they were tiny and small, coming from one direction only. They could have been mistaken for the cracks of an oncoming squall if there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

It was a sniper.

Jolting upright, the man holding Tommy hostage had a gigantic gap of red in the centre of his chest, with a miniature hole that penetrated the middle of his torso, almost to scale with a needle, the second high-pressure shot made Martine duck to the floor "Abbott!" Dillinger yelled in panic and rage as the man now known as 'Abbott' dropped to the ground. Taking her chance, Martine lunged for the gun, and they both reached for it next. Dillinger stumbled trying to avoid the range of the mystery sniper, and knocked the pistol away from them both, Martine grappled around him, as now they both made it to their knees, opposite from each other, Martine wondered if she could make it to the door before Dillinger grabbed the gun and span around, as he was now out of the view of the sniper.

She was wrong, but luckily just close enough as the door opened once again, and instead of Doctor Nolan it was a dark-skinned suited man, tall and burly, he grabbed Martine by the shoulder and with one hand tossed her out of the way of Dillinger's rising firearm.

"Down!" Outstretching a SIG-Sauer P226R outfitted with a Shadow-9 silencer in the other hand, the agent fired a single precise shot into Dillinger's arm, it landed in his shoulder with a piercing thud and knocked the weapon from his hand. Now squaring off with each other, the Agent dropped his pistol to the floor, so hand-to-hand it was (And in such close range an extended barrel was a bad idea, even Martine couldn't overlook that)

Once in psychical combat, Martine crawled towards the gun, taking it in her hand, she reached up to the bed, checking if the single occupant was still asleep as the bottom of his sheets were speckled and spotted by blood.

Meanwhile, Dillinger had been on the back-foot of the bout, swinging and delivering cross after cross-strike, as his opponent forced him back with a pounding knee into his stomach. Flipping the blade out of his boot, Dillinger span it in his hand, as the knife moved, Martine saw the glisten as the switchblade flicked back into it's armed position. Her mystery operative had no knife, simply himself, he meant to either defend Martine of remove her attacker.

Seemingly doing both, the Agent held back a raging Dillinger who lunged forward, knife-first, attempting to drive it into his opponent's head. Parrying by throwing the man back into the corner with a quick manipulation of his hand and then a shove, the Agent forced his enemy to drop the weapon and threw a follow up haymaker that missed by a mile, and Dillinger then took his chance to strike.

Grabbing another short combat-knife from his coat pocket and about to slice down, the Agent quickly blocked and threw Dillinger back around, nearer to Martine. Now readying for round two, it was quickly cut short.

Martine pounded the butt-end of the pistol's handle to the back of Dillinger's head, whipping his head back and making him slump to the ground.

"M...mm-" A familiar mumble touched the air as the Agent collected their pistols from the floor, and a cold wind started to blow from the window that had been cracked by the sniper-fire.

"You need to come with me, Martine, these men knew about you, and you know Tarasovich won't stop with-" The Agent tried to convince her, but she lightly pushed him away, kneeling down again to get closer to Tommy's faintly open eyes.

"I missed you, Tommy, but I'm sorry. I've got to do this" She confessed, while the Agent took the silenced pistol gently from her hand. This was for Tommy's safety, she'd never be able to live a normal life again, she'd never be able to be with him, that was the truth she was searching for. This past year exposed her to a hidden world, and now (however much she resisted it) she would have to live in it. Touching his arm as she stood, Martine pulled up the sleeve of her black turtleneck and smiled with the first touch of genuine emotion. Stepping away from him, his head tilted to meet her eyes, still dazed by the pain, he could never have comprehended what had happened to her in all the years they had been separated.

So Martine kept it all short, there was no time for her to be consumed by seeing him again; this would not be like the last time they had been reunited.

2 TAH W IN. WARD HALLWAY CAM 11 - 06:23:39

"You made the right choice in there, Martine. I'm Bryant, an operative for-" She cut him off once they stepped out of the hospital room, knowing exactly who he was and who he worked for, and she was exactly right this time.

"Decima Technologies, I'm aware. Just know I'm not doing this for you; Tarasovich is gone, Newport is in prison, and the U.N. don't care about me anymore" She recalled as they walked shoulder-to-shoulder down the corridor, Martine swept up her handbag and watched as Bryant sheathed his pistol and dropped the two assassin's handguns into the trash bin.

"What happens when the nurse finds those two? In my fiancé's room?" She asked him when there was a streak of silence. He directed her to a staircase and opened the door just wide enough for her to slip through it, and jog down the stairs.

"I shouldn't worry, our cleaners should attend to that fiasco long before anyone here has a clue" He replied with upmost assurance. If what Bryant said was true then she had just lied about Venator, he would have sent those two to kill her, but the doubt in her mind instantly picked up on several factors. They called her 'Wheeler' which was the name of her alias, and she had only told that to Newport, of course they must have talked to each other somehow, and the hacker had given the name to the mercenary who would have already had men positioned somehow, but she talked to Georgia in the prison at least a year ago, so Tarasovich had certainly taken his time.

Now Bryant pushed open another set of double-doors on the ground floor, ushering Martine into the lobby.

"Mr Holloway is expecting you, Martine, just be civil and do what he says" Bryant advised her with a deadpan tone. Both of them took heavy steps down to the foyer and the further pavilion. Gesturing to the row of dark sedans that formed a line about thirty feet from the entrance, Bryant followed her through the hospital's small garden features. The shadows that were congregating around the cars all shuffled away when the two of them got close, and the familiar over-compensating swagger of Holloway broke through a troop of multiple hulking guards.

He hadn't changed that much; now wearing a checked grey and black suit with a horizontally striped red tie, he had shaved the scruff he wore a year ago, and his hair was slicked to the side like a cliff or a rock-face. Bryant stepped back to the furthest car, and one of Holloway's attendants opened the door to his limo at the centre of the convoy. "

Very inconspicuous, aren't you?...What? Want me to say that I missed you?" Martine mocked him after some silence, as they stood almost parallel to where they stood a year ago.

"Spare me. I appreciate the sacrifice you made for Tommy, but you must realise now that we will offer you services much better than anything else, as long as you help us" He flipped away his phone when Martine huffed back at him "I hope you've taken care of the logistics, I don't come free of charge"

"Of course. My men have retrieved your effects from your apartment, we've changed your alias again, and our fixers are currently taking care of the mess upstairs. In exchange for Tommy's continued security and health care bills, we'll also be able to secure a steady contract for you, until we can update our own operations" Holloway touched the top of the limo's door and craned his head to her, she made her face twist into an ice-cold glare, as she looked straight ahead, glancing as Bryant silently got into his own car. Sliding into the furthest seat in the vehicle, soon enough, Holloway joined her, and tapped the driver's chair in front of him twice, prompting the convoy to pull away from the Hospital. Sat in the front seats were a faceless male driver and a female Decima Agent, who had her hair platted in a singular ponytail.

"You're sure that those two men came from Tarasovich? He's still alive. And for one of your worst enemies, he seems to be adept at evading you every time" Martine said when the cars started to drive out of the hospital grounds, Holloway relaxed in his seat on the large couch-like section of the limousine. "Now, we have no use for the Venator, he was instrumental in bringing you to the table, but his quarrel has finally caught up with him. You have my word when I say that you will never have to hear his name...ever again" Holloway vowed.

Curious about her own fate, Martine finally had the opening to ask the selfish questions "So what happens to me? I just start working for you? Just like that" She snaps her fingers while talking, and Holloway breathed a sigh to her, as the left side of his mouth rose into a smile.

"You'll need to be trained. Weaponry, tactics and physical endurance. But because of your already extensive reputation, I'd be happy to move you directly into Decima's combat operations division, we call it Parkhurst Security" Holloway let her know, most likely that was just another shell corporation for Decima to pump resources and people into. Martine nodded quickly, giving her consent and understanding.

"Then remember this; there's two ways to walk in this world, Martine. You're either a sheep, or you're a wolf. Personally, I think you made the right decision. Never put personal before business" Holloway said with deadly conviction, as his female aide turned her head slowly from her stoic position at the front of the limo. Eyeing Martine with a cruel set of dull green eyes, her pale glossy lips parted to utter a shuddering final remark.

"You will know strength, **be** strength, and believe me...it's so much fun. So you never let the weak tell you what to do, welcome to Decima"

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 9th 2014

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: THE PENTAGON [US DEPARTMENT OF DEFENCE]

DOD HELI DC 1495 - 10:11:30

[THE PENTAGON]

 **US DEPARTMENT OF DEFENCE**

OCCUPANTS: **18,340**

DEVIANTS: **757**

ASSETS: **155**

DOD OFFICE A113 R-CAM 02 - 10:11:38

In the deep room of a Officers personal workspace was a single thick desk, an arrangement of chairs and a display of photographs, all framed and placed neatly on shelfs and next to awards, detailing years of service and most carrying the motif of 'Blank - of the month' and sat behind the thick wooden desk on a artistically furnished white chair was DOD Officer and ISA Liaison Cayden Hayward.

Organising a budget bill on his desk, he carefully picked up the two most recent reports that had been placed in front of him. The missing former ISA Agents Myers and Davenport have both come back, or at least their bodies have come back. Somehow they had fled to Japan and gotten into a firefight with the brutal arm of the latest artificial super-intelligence, which Control called 'Samaritan' they had been approached by a spokesperson and quickly began to transfer all of the Northern Lights terminals to this new system. Following Grice's streak of rebel ways, Myers and Davenport defected from their squads and joined up in Tokyo, and from their they contacted Hayward himself, and as he was equally suspicious, it prompted him to help their investigation into Samaritan.

Honestly, Cayden never trusted the new Research 2.0 himself, so he wasn't hesitant to help the two agents, sending them any non-sensitive information that would be able to help without doing that much damage. Apparently he was wrong about that, because in a matter of days, Samaritan's armed private army had arrived at Davenport's hideout and dispatched the agents within an hour or two. But as far as he knew, Agent Myers had assured him that they would shred the laptop if anything happened, he believed her, but it had been days since the firefight, and he hadn't received a threatening message or had his door smashed by black-clad men, so for now, he considered himself under the radar.

From it's position in the corner of the room, Samaritan's interface locked onto Hayward, assigning him a 'tracked individual' logo, and as the bars span slowly around him, Hayward's common brown eyes suddenly rose from their slumber down in the papers, as the cogs in his brain turned, he suddenly glanced up to the camera. Staring into the ball-like camera installed in the shadowed corner, it's black lens stared back, shifting and zooming in as a red light flashed.

Going back to his work, Cayden would personally write down notes by hand, and fill in every box on a printed piece of paper before tying anything on a digital source. Nowadays, that was one of the smartest moves a person could make. Taking his pen and pressing it to the paper, Samaritan studied the man's entire life. Born and raised in Pennsylvania, attended Penn State University and married in 2003, Cayden fathered an only child, Gabriel, after he was divorced a year later. Reaching for a text-filled binder on a table next to his work-desk, Cayden's basic profile was highlighted by Samaritan.

[SUSPECT IDENTIFIED]

NAME: HAYWARD, CAYDEN M

DOB: 13/06/1971

SSN: XXX-XX-5661

POSITION: AGENCY LIAISON, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENCE

DIAGNOSIS: -MARITAL CONTROVERSY

-SELF-DELETING TEXTS

-MINOR DYSLEXIA

-ILLEGAL OWNERSHIP OF A FIREARM

CONCLUSION: **/ / / DEVIANT**

RECOMMENDATION: CONDUCT HUMAN SURVEILLANCE

 **EVALUATING_**

 **ASSET EN ROUTE: 00:00:02:42.2**

As Cayden signed his name at the bottom of the black-budget spending bill, he set his pen down next to the paper once a knock at the door caught his attention. His bearded sweater-wearing Secretary Lawrence opened the door and cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, Sir, Ms Watkins is here from Homeland Security, about the Whitaker Inquiry?" Lawrence spoke clearly, holding the tall door ajar, glimpsing the more traditional office and waiting room outside. Cayden allowed the meeting to take place, and watched from behind his desk as his new Homeland Security contact entered the room.

Dressed formally in a black woman's suit with ankle-length high-heeled boots, and her hair in a long ponytail, and bright blonde hair streaked with golden brown and dull natural yellow. Hanging her suave brown overcoat on the back of a seat opposite Hayward's desk, Megan Watkins remained standing to shake the man's hand.

"Mr Hayward, it's good to finally meet you in person" She simpered, in a New Yorker's accent, as Megan sat a few seconds after Cayden did. Getting to the matter at hand, she couldn't help but acknowledge the camera right in front of her, hanging above Cayden's head on the ceiling.

DOD OFFICE A113 R-CAM 01 - 10:21:49

 **ASSET / / 029**

"Ms Watkins, I'm rather busy at the moment, so if you want to brief me on the inquiry I can host you for the next ten minutes" Hayward reminded her, while pushing another file relating to the Hanford Nuclear Incident away, he tucked it into a pile of papers as he noticed that Watkins had too brought a collection of information. She flicked through the papers of a thin file until she pulled out one that was of relevance to national security.

"This is George Whitaker, a Former Homeland Security advisor to the White House, and currently an FBI chief, and I've received a notification from the Office of Special Counsel that Chief Whitaker is a wannabe whistleblower, attempting to compromise a DOD black-budget bill, similar to what you've been working on" Megan informed him as she showed the man opposite pictures of a grey-haired and fat-faced bureaucrat, along with service records and a list of FBI procedures. Cayden found no faults or typos in her documents, so she clearly did her homework.

He was familiar with the case, but had no idea of the relevance that it had. Hayward clasped his fingers and hands together and leaned forward on his desk, bracing his forearms on the wood as he inspected the closest piece of printed paper. The woman in the chair in front of him was patient, with a lusting and distant gaze. Touching the back of her neck casually, Megan watched as Cayden picked up the papers and scanned them with his eyes, tutting and nodding slowly.

"Everything seems in order, and according to this, there's been no update on this case since the fourth. So, why have you brought these to me?" Hayward referred to the document in front of him, and then set his judgemental gaze to Megan, who smiled and was about to explain, before a high-frequency squeal broke into her earpiece.

"Martine, it's Lambert. Samaritan has new orders, surveillance and interaction is no longer necessary, Cayden has become relevant...looks like the ISA finally caught on to the laptop. Bring him to us at the Steiner" Lambert's drawl cut off just as soon as it begun, and now Martine was faced with a more frustrated opponent.

"So? Would you like me to repeat the question, Ms Watkins?" Cayden demanded. Thinking fast, Martine produced a folded piece of paper from her blazer-pocket, and faked an excuse just as quickly "There's one more thing, Sir, could you sign this? It's just an authorisation letter to my superiors" She lied, it was actually just a DOD arrival schedule that she had procured from a contact who asked no questions, but it would only be used as a distraction, just to get Hayward to avert his eyes for a simple second; and that's exactly what he did. Taking the paper in his hand, Martine stood from her chair and lashed out to the man's throat with a handheld taser that was hidden in her suit-jacket.

The weapon crackled and zapped with electric energy once it touched bare skin, Hayward's eyes glazed over as he convulsed and fell backwards in his chair, going limp seconds afterwards. Now she had silence. Samaritan changed it's readouts and commenced an assessment of it's target.

Martine walked around to grab Cayden by the wrists, and drag him out of the chair and throw him lazily onto the floor with a low-sounding slam, then systematically stepping back to where she sat, Martine took a breath in and screeched and screamed as loud as she could, instantly drawing the simple-minded Secretary into the room. As expected he busted in to see his boss unconscious and 'Megan' shocked to her core with her hands to her temples.

"He just collapsed right there, I think he's having a heart attack! Please, we've got to get him to the hospital!" She panicked convincingly. From the local hospital a transfer to the Steiner would be easy, and soon Cayden Hayward would be at the mercy of Team Samaritan.

SUBJECT: HAYWARD, CAYDEN M

 **-INCAPACITATED-**

 **RECRUIT**

NAME: HAYWARD, CAYDEN M

 **OUTLIER TRAITS**

-146 IQ

-BLOOD TYPE: O NEGATIVE

-ILLEGAL OWNERSHIP OF A FIREARM: **4 COUNTS**

-OFFSPRING: MALE, 10 YEARS-OLD, **212 IQ** , **LOCATION UNKNOWN**

EVALUATING_

 **REEVALUATING IDENTIFICATION...**

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 22nd 2012

LOCATION: Harlem, Manhattan, NEW YORK CITY, USA

LEVEL 3 ZONE G105 - 23:54:49

Being a criminal wasn't hard in a city as big as New York. Crime was rife on every street and no one could be trusted, every homeless man carried a knife and every cabbie driver held a gun, that was just expected. But the most deadly crimes would often come from someone who you'd never expect to pull one of, like a teacher or a banker. These were always the mastermind, never willing to actually get into the fray, sending minion after minion to perform the muscle and the thug's work. But that wasn't the case of Evelyn Floyd, she wasn't a mastermind, just another dumb thug.

A gangster and gun-runner for the some of worst gangs in the city, and the recent wheelman (Or Woman) for a prestigious job in lower Manhattan, working for the biggest boss in the city; Elias. The elusive crime-lord has kept a long distance, only communicating via phone, he had told them the specifics of the job and then how to exactly get away with it, and each member of the team had done it all to the letter. Now, this was there fate.

Two members of the heist-team had already been arrested by the NYPD, the other two were missing, and Floyd was alone. Wearing some brown combat slacks and a baggy grey shirt, Floyd didn't waste time on her appearance, which showed when looking at her muddy black boots and her messy brown hair done in a bun.

Walking alone towards her car which had been cautiously parked at the edge of a car-park block in Harlem, the walls were covered in grime and grit, and the other vehicles around her weren't exactly a perfect picture of New York's automobile scene, the old and broken cars were packed up against each other when Floyd finally got to hers, which was an antique factory red Buick Skylark from 1972, dirty, yet reliable and tough to it's core, Floyd kept apart of her own soul in this car, and it was in her family since her grandfather's youth. Surrounded by eerie blue and ambient green, the car's colour was dulled by the sense of impending misdeeds when Floyd popped the trunk open to throw in a sack or two.

Elias had never shown up for the drop-off, so the team had to split the money...and take it wherever they went, for fear that the crime-lord's goons would hustle any residence they knew about. Checking her surroundings, Floyd was about to shut the trunk when a shadow crawled out from behind a nearby concrete pillar.

"Elias wants to talk to you about his twenty-five thousand dollars" A sultry and cultured voice told her from the shadow that it stood in.

Whoever it happened to be was already taller than her, and much more lean and skinny, and she got her answer as Elias's enforcer stepped out. On the black market and inside of Elias's inner circle, everyone had their nicknames, Scarface, Venator, Romeo, these were the one's that everyone feared and everyone knew.

But this was one of the silent kind, one of the fixers. If someone ever became a problem in the chain of command, then the fixers would take care of them and see to it that they never come back. Elias had a lot of faith in this elite and off-the-books group, so Floyd's escape must have meant something personal.

Now bearing down on her, the female fixer known as 'Copperhead' after the camouflaged and lethally venomous snake and the woman's shining ginger, almost copper-like hair. She stood in clear profile next to the pillar, her steely glare fixed on Floyd. The assassin wore a dark blue body-suit and nearly knee-length black boots, and a flowing snow-white coat that hung to her shoulders, and conveniently concealed a twin shoulder-holster that hung from each arm.

Letting her white cloak flap to the floor, Copperhead tilted her head. "I'm flattered, but I'm not interested at the moment" Floyd coughed, reaching inside her trunk to grasp the handle of a firearm, just as Copperhead stepped forward aggressively.

"I'm not asking.." She said sinisterly as Floyd's arm snapped out from the trunk, opening fire with a chrome silver and black Colt XSE, as fast she could, her assailant took cover behind the same pillar where she appeared as the rapid-fire bullets cut through the air, Floyd fired a few extra to suppress her as she found a spot to hide behind, a car a few meters from her own ride.

Ducking down and viewing through the wing-mirror of the car, Floyd watched as Copperhead squatted down, coming out from the pillar and returning fire in a steady rhythm, she dual-wielded Glock 22s in a flurry of bullets. Keeping her down in a hail of gunfire, Floyd ducked to the ground from her hiding spot "Bitch" she cursed as a shot impacted just near her head with a loud impact, any closer and it could have taken the side of her head clean off. So with an outstretched arm, she fired back as her attacker rolled behind the exact same cover.

Another bullet from Floyd's Colt handgun blasted the window of the rusty car to pieces, showering both of them in flecks of clear and shredded glass, they inched closer to each other. Sliding out from their cover at the same time, they found themselves in a stalemate.

Barrel to barrel, Copperhead smirked, her bronze hair falling around her face, increasing her psychotic aura. Floyd gave her best mean-mugging face, but now their guns didn't matter, this close, hand-to-hand made the most sense.

Swinging with her free hand, Floyd knocked one of her assassin's pistols away, then found her own weapon being kneed away from her in a brutal strike.

One gun left, and grabbing it for leverage, Floyd span an elbow into the face of Copperhead, denting the nose of the supermodel-like woman, she returned with a short-range kick to Floyd's ribs, making the woman break her grip and wrench the pistol from Copperhead's hand. Now raising the firearm, the corner of Floyd's mouth started at a smile, and squeezed the trigger.

Click. Empty. **Shit**.

Copperhead launched at her at once with a ruthless frontal kick, shooting her leg out like a strike of lightning, the boot landed hard in Floyd's head, sending her tumbling into one of the concrete pillars. Now struggling to stand, the fixer closed the distance, and a closeup roundhouse kick put Floyd on the ground again.

Hearing the noise of two extendable batons, Floyd's hand went to a dagger hidden in her ankle-length boot, just in time to recover, Floyd dodged a deadly strike, and slashed back, which too was blocked. Now able to stand, she glanced at her Colt handgun not far from her, but as Copperhead advanced, spinning her batons, Floyd's mind switched back to the matter at hand. Swinging the knife, Copperhead ducked and span her right baton at Floyd's head, just in time, she dodged and attempted a sweep with her leg, which the flexible fixer leapt over with a half-cartwheel.

Another stabbing motion, and Floyd managed to manipulate the assassin's arm, grasping and twisting, Copperhead dropped one baton and span around, whipping a kick straight into the side of Floyd's head. Causing her eyes to go fuzzy and the blood to rush to her head, she had enough sense left to feel the stomach-churning effect of Copperhead's stiff striking punch to her guts, and another to her stomach, followed by a jumping knee that rocked and shattered her chin and finally downed her.

Floyd gripped the knife as Copperhead snickered, standing over her and still holding one baton, she kicked up one of her Glock sidearms that had been knocked away "You should have given up when you have the chance, looks like Elias was right, you're nothing but a-"

Copperhead's monologue was cut short by the choking and spluttering noise of Floyd's thrown knife imbedding itself into her sternum.

The flash of horror in her eyes was brief before she uttered a whimper like a wounded animal, she next fell to her knees with a clatter of her baton, then collapsed backwards in a mess of long limbs and weapons.

Floyd stood eventually, retrieving the phone her attacker had, and then her own weapon, she knew that Elias's men would most likely be covering all the entrances and exits. So escaping the block would be a whole other ordeal.

Standing in the abandoned car-park with a body at her feet gave Floyd pause for thought, how did she even get here? And where would she go from here? It seemed like an unanswerable question, but for now, she didn't want to think about an answer.

For now, she had seek out someone she trusted.


	17. Chapter 17: Thales of Miletus

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: FEBRUARY 15th 2005

LOCATION: Brooklyn, NEW YORK, USA

SEC2 CAM D WAREHOUSE-LINK 0.2.1- 19:55:29

The buzzing of a lamp hanging above a warehouse's collection of barrels and boxes provided nothing but a constant background noise to the sound of angry pacing, up and down and up and down again. Practically stomping, Nazarov Tarasovich held his cheap burner phone up to his ear, as one of his informants prattled on the other end of the line.

Abbott and Dillinger had failed, Abbott had been killed and Rick was taken to the hospital and then disappeared shortly after.

Trying to contact Georgia, he had gotten no further, and 'Parnassus' or D-CRYPT wouldn't speak to him either. A bad stench had been in the air ever since they had left Obanno's gang and were contacted by the shady internet user. However much he would deny it to himself, Nazarov had become a puppet, a fragile leader of his own team and faction that served a greater master.

Wearing his patchy dark green long-coat and dark grey thick shirt that concealed a Kevlar vest, he tucked his Smith & Wesson 629 classic revolver into the back pocket of his formal trousers, and span on the heel of his smart and shining shoes, being around so many business-types recently like Holloway and Lambert has changed the attitude of Nazarov recently. The long game was no longer of meaning to him, it was all about the short successes, that was what he was thinking when he sent his most trusted assassins to silence Wheeler, who must have escaped if all the reports were true.

Most likely it was Turndale or Parkhurst that extracted her, which caused Tarasovich to only grow more aggravated with his current situation.

The warehouse he was staying in had been empty for years, and it showed with the rotting and broken walls showing the grimy foundations on which it was built on the furthest edge of Brooklyn.

Nazarov looked up the tall cracking blue walls and the shelves of boxes and tools, stacked for miles down the hall-like warehouse. Standing near the door, Nazarov grimaced as his informant listed the details of Wheeler's escape.

"She was evacuated by an elite team soon after Abbott was murdered, but the cameras were wiped soon after so I can't be sure" The snitch muttered, as sounds of a busy office could be heard behind him, in response, Nazarov only growled through his teeth.

"Not good enough, Casey, find out where they're going" He commanded, before hanging up via flipping his phone down.

Slotting the phone into a pocket in his coat, Nazarov scowled to himself again, a twitch developing in his left eyelid, he rubbed his face with the palm of his hand, stepping away from the doorway, he went to the nearest crate and braced himself on it, just as he heard the door swing open, not moving at all, he knew exactly who it was.

"I trust you've already killed Petrov outside, was it quick?"

"Quick enough. Hello, Mr Tarasovich" Jeremy Lambert trilled with a chuckle, as his guards walked out from behind him, forming a semi-circle around Nazarov.

Now it was all too clear; Lambert never worked for Parnassus, he was Parnassus. "Was it you?" Nazarov asked to the open air, when Lambert smiled with a gesture of sarcastic defence, raising his hands up to his torso.

"Who took Ms Wheeler from you? No, but I was the man who arrested Georgia in Colorado, and killed your friend Markus Kellan" He admitted, just as his quarry backed him up, and was followed by the black suited aggressors.

Lambert was dressed in a funeral suit, his ash-like hair slightly more unkempt, and a short beard of stubble across his handsome chin. His shoes were like reflective mirrors and put Nazarov's to shame. Slowly, the Russian reached behind his back to his revolver, just as Lambert's thugs drew out silenced Beretta Px4 Storms, Nazarov quickly went for the nearest Decima Agent, he cocked his weapon and raised it quickly, and fired a piercing shot at the man, in a crack of fire, the Agent was thrown to the floor by the blast, and all the other men opened loose on the former FSB.

Attempting to gun him down there and then, Nazarov scrambled past the barrels, firing another two shots that were harmless misses, Lambert walked causally into the middle of the space between the door and the further parts of the warehouse. "Sweep the area, find him, now" He addressed to his men, drawing his own sidearm from his coat in a single motion as his minions rushed to secure the warehouse.

In truth, the system of recruiting operatives of Decima was a muddled one, often their network of spies would report a particular individual in a government or corporation, and they would be slowly manipulated using several personal factors or with certain promises until they joined the fold, but some people were just pawns, contractors to be used. Holloway and Tarasovich were alike in this instance, or at least Lambert thought that way.

Holding his gun in two hands, Jeremy began to take slow steps as his men went in-between the tall shelves and started to search for The Venator, but this was his element, he had the advantage of surprise here. Hearing one of his men struggle for a moment before silence unnerved him, they would be picked off like this. The Russian FSB operator would have known more than a hundred ways to separate a group and take them down individually, so this must have been child's play among the metal rafters and the crates of equipment.

Stalking slowly in the maze of walls and boxes, Nazarov would have to be cautious. These men definitely meant to kill him, Lambert must have been Greer's knight after all, and that man had no mercy for the things in his way. Taking slow steps, he wanted to take revenge of the leader before even heading for the exit, which at one time would have been the most logical and best strategy that a younger Venator would have come too.

Sliding under a empty slot in the steel shelf, Nazarov found his target. Sheathing his pistol again, Nazarov unwound his garrotte-wire from his jacket, wrapping the deadly instrument around his knuckles, he would enjoy this.

As taut as a bowstring, the Russian prepared to sling the rope-like weapon around the throat of Lambert; imagining it a little before he did the deed, but suddenly a slight vibration started in his chest. His phone began to shake and ring from inside his coat, and the dialling ringtone didn't help either, as Lambert turned around gradually and with speed, firing a shocking three suppressed blasts into The Venator's chest.

Forcing the man to his knees, Nazarov could feel the hot blood building in his chest and spurting from the three holes in his torso as he watched Jeremy and now two of his bodyguards close in. So breathing slowly and far more laboured, Nazarov offered a crooked grin as Lambert tightened his suppressor and aimed it to The Venator's head.

"This won't change anything, British scum, you haven't won today, and I will be avenged" Nazarov sputtered through bloody coughs.

"Maybe so. I'm just keeping a promise" Lambert admitted to him, as more of his thugs closed in.

Nazarov gave the same grin, closing his eyes, he muttered a final curse in his mother's tongue "у ад есть место для вас прямо рядом со мной" Tarasovich finished.

"Yeah, whatever" Lambert retorted, shooting Nazarov through the head with a breath of finality. A streak of crimson and water-like blood erupted from his forehead, both the back and front of his skull was blown open as his husk dropped forwards.

"Clean this up" Jeremy ordered.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 9th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

FAC MAIN APLHA SC 1 - 23:21:39

 **ASSET / / 434**

 **ASSET IDENTIFIED**

FUNCTION: **ADMIN**

NAME: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

ALIAS: GREER, JOHN

COMMAND RM WEBCAM INPUT 838 - 23:22:55

Murrow and Greer stood nearly shoulder-to-shoulder as they watched the switching feeds from Samaritan's massive view-screen, showing motorways, sidewalks and inside buildings, it finally stopped inside a hospital ward. White and sterile, the corridor where the camera sat that viewed the hospital hallway was busy and full of life, nurses ran up and down with documents and beds were always full as Doctors tended to the ill.

Even nearly past midnight this was the scene that the two men watched, and as the interface swapped from the view of the corridor, a figure could be seen entering the nearest room to the right, and that was the next place that Samaritan look upon. Nothing was on the screen except for that single camera-feed, and it detailed a hospital room, tiled and with a long bed that held an unconscious body, the figure that stepped inside was Lambert, freshly suited and shaved, and searching the desks near the bed. Closing the door, he stepped into the middle of the room lightly.

On the hospital bed was a sleeping and scarred Cayden Hayward, seeing Hayward's nerdy red checkered shirt strewn on the chair next to his bed, Lambert glanced to the camera, and then walked over to the nearest table. Moving the landline phone, Jeremy pushed it with the flat of his hand, making it crash and clatter to the floor; and still Cayden didn't flinch or move an inch, and neither did anyone outside, so any other sound wouldn't be problem.

Knowing that, Lambert spoke to the camera, knowing that Samaritan and it's 'primary operations chief' Greer would be listening and responding in his earpiece. "Looks like he's been secured, our Asset at the hospital has already put in a request and faked all the documents to allow a safe transfer to the Steiner, from there it should be a piece of cake" Lambert expressed. "And Martine?" Greer leaned forward keeping his head raised in that always astute expression and general manner. Looking away from the camera, the Agent in the field went to the window and parted a couple of blinds with his fingertip.

"She's securing a perimeter, just in case any of his ISA or DOD friends get a clue to where he's actually going" He informed them back at the command terminal deep in the asylum. Beside Greer, Murrow hovered around the back of the room, scanning the workmen and the operators who typed out code and checked other camera feeds on their own computers. In the blackened control room, time would stop all together, the only indicator would be the time-codes in the corner of Samaritan's camera feeds.

It had a stillness; a constant echo of a new world built by the ASI, and so did the man standing in front of Murrow. Dressed in his best dinner-going attire, Greer kept his red and white striped tie pinned to his chest by a unique tie-pin that resembled Samaritan's triangle logo. His face like ice, and with the weight of a infinite power at his fingertips, why would he be so relaxed? Murrow slowly approached to stand next to his Chief's shoulder again, who's uncaring eyes hadn't shifted from the main wall-sized monitor.

"Be careful Mr Lambert, we wouldn't want any interference to compromise Samaritan's objective" Greer disciplined. But what was that, exactly? Murrow crossed his arms, balancing one arm on his elbow and stroking his chin with a thoughtful hand.

He had been there with Jeremy, Drake, Flint and Thorndyke when the orders came in from Samaritan itself, Cayden wasn't the priority all of a sudden, an additional target was added that seemed to be held by the intelligence as more important. Sticking his hands in his pockets, Greer huffed when Lambert went back out the room as Martine stalked down the hospital hallway with a face of disdain, as if she hated the smell of the place.

Completely changing her clothes from her visit to The Pentagon, she was wearing a loosely patterned lace shirt under a brown biker's jacket, and layered jeans with stocky heeled boots.

They conversed outside Hayward's room, before turning back to the waiting area.

"Excuse me, Sir, but if Hayward is no longer Samaritan's primary target, then why is he still of relevance?" Murrow asked, while the interface on the monitor zoomed out of the hospital cameras and went surging and surfing through the government feeds like normal. Responding to the question, Greer turned to his subordinates with a grandfatherly charm.

"Cayden Hayward still remains a target of the ISA, and according to Samaritan, he has information that could help us with finding a suitable...host for Samaritan's human interface" He explained soothingly.

"But I thought Cayden was the initial imprint for the host?" Murrow replied, raising both his eyebrows briefly while he looked down to his boss.

Starting out as a simple army veteran and mercenary, Murrow was one of the latest recruits to Decima, and one of the newest to Samaritan, so he was always curious about the system and what it could do.

"He was; yes. But plans change, and with Samaritan, nothing is ever set in stone" Greer conversed, touching his tie and then watching the changing feeds. After spanning inside of office buildings again and then out on the sidewalk, it went to the fence-camera outside of an estate home in the suburbs of Saddle River, New Jersey.

Frowning, Greer knew what this was leading too. Buying the house in the early years of his success as a public figure, Lars Rasmussen had kept this house as his flagship for tens of years. The view changed to inside an empty wine-cellar room, full of racks and wooden crates holding stashes of red and white wine bottles. Since joining as one of Samaritan's primary assets, Rasmussen rigged his home up with 24/7 CCTV access. Murrow noted that Greer had taken a sharp and resentful breath inwards, then a intense sigh.

"Problem, Sir?" Murrow asked as the feed changed from the wood-lined wine cellar to the study on level two of the house, a fancy room, wide and covered in ornate sculptures of horses and feathered stalks and birds, and each wall was decorated with a bookshelf made from wood and bone, stacked full of lexicon's and dark and disturbing fictions.

In the shelves not far from the library were filing cabinets - most likely full of files and ledgers from Rasmussen's career as a banker and corporate shark. Switching to a cliche hallway camera, Samaritan assigned a tracking line and box to a silhouette walking from the outside terrace into the house. Opening the glass double-doors Rasmussen himself gauntly walked from the terrace into the foyer of the second level, and descending a spiral staircase, he stepped towards a guard that held another door into the further interior of the mansion.

Viewing intently, Greer acknowledged Murrow with a stout nod.

"Watch how he parades himself, his connections to the worldwide media only aiding Samaritan's conquest. In many ways, he's the perfect mark. He's too ignorant, too divine to understand our reasoning as to why we commissioned him. Too arrogant to listen to anything our Assets are actually telling him, and yet he knows everything" Greer lamented with a spiteful smile. Murrow shrugged, turning back to the central wall-mounted monitor.

The businessman on the camera feeds had now moved from the staircase to the kitchen; which sparingly was completely abandoned. Silverware and pale brown tiling made up the room, with stainless steel islands that Rasmussen effortlessly floated past.

Dressed in a suit to rival Greer's, it was a deep and infinite grey, with a sea-blue dress shirt and a dim blue floral tie. The view changed again to a smaller room on the first floor, he progressed towards it in full view of the camera, it changed to follow Rasmussen into the compact space - possibly a study - it had a single table which had three small and slender statues, one of another bird (a perched Falcon, black and made of some form of obsidian) a bust of a philosopher (which Greer recognised to be Thales Of Miletus) and a small statue of a Moai head. Passing these items and ornaments, Rasmussen gripped the handle of another pair of wooden doors.

Pausing for a second, Samaritan's assigned box flickered, and then remained, adding a new clarification.

 **ASSET IDENTIFIED**

FUNCTION: **PUBLIC ASSET - PRIMARY OPERATIVE**

NAME: RASMUSSEN, LARS H

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

LOCATION: SADDLE RIVER, NEW JERSEY

MANDATE: [REDACTED]

 **MANDATE IN PROGRESS...**

Rasmussen then pulled on the double doors, and the box glitched away. Promptly, the camera feeds changed back to a generic sidewalk somewhere in New York, and cataloged a few tracked individuals and deviants, just as it always did. Murrow was left confused, and Greer sneered to himself.

His phone buzzing, Greer checked it for a minute, it was Lambert. Holding the phone to his ear and giving Murrow a glance to allow him to take over watching the aides and the operators, Greer stepped away, looking at one of the highlighted maps on the wall of the command room while Lambert spoke "We have Hayward in an ambulance now, Martine and I should be at the Steiner within the next couple of hours" He disclosed. "Excellent, did the hospital buy your little story?" Greer replied.

"Hook, line and sinker, Sir" Lambert exulted, probably grinning at the other end of the phone-line. "Good work, I'll await your arrival, notify Murrow when you get here" Greer instructed him.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: JULY 30th 2006

LOCATION: New Hampshire, MAINE, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: North Berwick - [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

GUN RANGE SEC T-1C 22:03:58

Loading the round of bullets into the gun, the satisfying click of the HK-VP9 handgun's magazine being loaded was now a splash of music into Martine's ears, with earphones and mufflers on her ears and her re-dyed blonde hair tied back in a bun, she disengaged the safety and pulled back the slide of the pistol, now a bullet was chambered, she lined up the sight and the target, about six or seven meters away and straight in front of her.

Moving her index finger to the trigger, she pulled fatefully, and the kickback was minimal, but the noise of the shot hitting the target was at least a little comforting to know she was getting much better. Training at one of Decima's facilities not that far from New York, Holloway had dropped her off here to make sure that Martine had the best training available.

She had never heard of Holloway or Bryant since then, having to suffer being around a whole new crowd of hopefuls, but at least this time she had much more experience, it was just like her first days of the U.N.'s Investigation Department. Navigating a hostile room of strangers was easy after her first time doing it at The Hague's offices.

As she unloaded a volley of consecutive shots, Martine suddenly found herself out of bullets.

She checked the impact zones on the paper and boarded torso, mostly hits on the chest and head, but at least she wasn't missing by miles like the first ever time she tried her hand in the gun range. The long room she stood in was a acidic green and old yellow colour, almost degraded by the time and the amount of gunfire smoke.

Martine dropped the spent magazine and reached for another one. Wearing a short sleeveless shirt and some old skinny jeans, along with a pair of ankle-high black trainers, Martine hardly dressed for the courts of the U.N. nowadays. It had become much more casual and informal, as she picked up a second magazine and threw an empty one into a plastic bin where at least fourteen other empty magazines were stored. As she completed the drilled-in steps on how to load and operate the weapon, she lined up a headshot in the paper target before a voice cut her off, just as she was about to pull on the trigger.

"You should get some rest, you know" A young-sounding voice caught her from the doorway.

Strange, that was the line that D-Crypt would use, flicking the safety on and removing her index finger, Martine cocked her head to the side, causing a crack of the joint as she heard the figure step closer.

Applying her analytical training she figured that it was Male, most likely young, nearer to her age than someone like Holloway, it could have been the owner of the gun range, but when turning to see for herself after placing the pistol on the front of the booth it was apparently not he owner.

Bespectacled and wearing a daft checkered shirt and a moss-green sweater, the man (or rather, boy) Leant against the back table of the hall that held all the down-facing weapons. "And so should you buddy, no offence, obviously" She jested. Having the same self assurance as a toddler, the boy stood cross-armed now in front of her, as she stepped away from the firing range, checking Martine up and down behind his thick circular black-rimmed glasses, he was hidden in the dim lighting of the room.

Coming out from the contrasting light that cast his face in yellow and black blotches of colour, the boy uttered a moderately loud laugh, as if he took her last remark to be a joke too. Pressing his middle finger up to push his glasses back to the rim of his nose oddly, the tension between them raised as he introduced himself, reminding Martine of Connor slightly; who she hadn't thought of for years. "None taken, friend. Virgil, Christopher Virgil" The boy perked up, obviously of Korean descent, he waited for the woman he stood near to respond next, but she didn't. Virgil didn't speak like he was as socially inept as his looks told her, and his clear Florida accent didn't give away any of his heritage either.

"Martine Rousseau" She found herself saying, then immediately regretting it as she did whenever she uttered it, but strangely the name had a certain ring to it after continued use.

"Actually, you didn't need to tell me your name, I already know it. I've seen you around" Virgil admitted, unfolding his arms and standing in a neutral posture in front of her.

He had? Martine hadn't been familiar with the concept of being noticed yet; sure, in the U.N. everyone just carried on with their work, and interacted when it was worthwhile or immediately necessary. But staying in a Decima training camp was beginning to change her view of a work environment "I always felt like I was being watched, so how did you find me?" Martine returned his gaze, a glimpse of suspicion in her heavenly brown eyes.

Virgil ran his hand back over the table of guns, clearly not found of the weapons, he turned his attention back to Martine. "My friends and I were taking bets on who you were, since you're the last of Decima's new recruits. Holloway brought me in too from my corrupt position at the NSA" Virgil told her.

It could all be a play, though, trying to get her to trust him in a situation similar to D-Crypt. But he mentioned Holloway, a name that hadn't been said for a long time at this secret Decima outpost (used for training and housing up and coming Agents) "So I guess you lost the bet?" Martine snarked, attempting to get a read on this guy, he wasn't as transparent as Connor, wether that meant good or bad Martine didn't know.

Thoughtfully, Virgil slipped his hands into the pockets of his sweater "I was too curious not to cheat, so I asked the woman at the catalog office for your file, and she was very accommodating" He smirked at Martine's lean form, just as she perused the gun table and moved her current weapon away. She picked up a stout and robust Kahr Arms CM9 from the table, holding it in her hand and feeling the weight, Martine loaded it neatly as Virgil kept talking to her as if she would listen and drop everything else.

"But of course, we're all here for a reason, and me and my friends arrived at the same time. You arrived much later, after we'd been to Ordos at Holloway's request. Meant to throw a spanner in the works, maybe?" He guessed, slightly aggravating Martine, did he think she was planted? Her lack of friends and commitment to the work must have been one doubt in his mind; a planted spy would be normal unlike her though, engaging in social interactions and trying to keep friends to help dig out traitors.

Fitting the earphones back in, Martine shrugged at him. Now turning sharply to the range in front of her, Martine fired a straight set of five shots to the ravaged target. The bullets tore into the target and card in a satisfying way.

Behind her, her newfound admirer was watching her work from the back of the room. She had been following everything Holloway said, to train as hard as she could before getting onto active combat duty. That meant slaving at the gun-range and the gym, and even the combat-cage after hours, anything to take her mind off Tommy. As she put round after round into the target, this method was suddenly working to displease her company.

Virgil backed away at the gunshots that made him uncomfortable, but he was still watching her. After expending a short clip of ammunition, she slammed the pistol down in front of her and swiftly removed the earmuffs, making Virgil gulp. "Must you do that? Most people are normally asleep at this hour, you know" He cautioned her.

"Oh I know, but I'm not most people, Christopher, so I'm happy to continue, unless you're gonna snitch on me?" She raised an eyebrow in his direction, and finally catching on, Virgil played the verbal game just as well. "I wouldn't dream of it, besides, you're far too interesting to tattle on" Virgil jousted with her, as Martine rummaged through the empty clips and used firearms around her, finding one that wasn't empty, she went to load it back into her pistol.

"My comrades initially elected to...assault you, tonight, under the cover of darkness" Virgil admitted, just as Martine cocked the weapon. "Did they?" She said with a smirk, turning back around.

"However, I wanted to give you a head's up, it's a somewhat deadly trial. You go to the supervisor, they'll know they can easily threaten you, but if you stand and fight, they'll follow you to the deepest valley. Do you understand?" Virgil laid down the ground-rules, shifting in his shoes. Nodding, Martine was silent apart from two words.

"I do" She confirmed, and with haste, and looking up into the camera above them, Virgil swept himself away from the room.

As he walked away, the echoes of his smart footwear pounding on the hollow floor, he heard a volley of gunshots rocketing from the pistol Martine held behind him, she wouldn't be leaving the gun range for some time...


	18. Chapter 18 (Part 1): Commands

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 9th 2014

LOCATION: Saddle River, NEW JERSEY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: 105 CHESTNUT RIDGE RD

SEC G7 CAM 030 - 23:58:03

"-And with our new software rolling out later this month, I'd say we're on perfect track for the next fiscal year" the financial aide reported from the Zenith Media Corporation's headquarters in Denmark, and his image was being transported from the mammoth building into the wide and opulent living room in Lars Rasmussen's mansion home. Sipping the final amount of high-brand whiskey, the figurehead himself placed the stout glass on a low table near to his lavish couch. "Outstanding, Mr Gale, truly, I can't wait to see what you have in store" Rasmussen congratulated quite literally, as he looked over past the television and into the vast and endless ground that his mansion stood on. The seas of greens and tree-lines have a perfect border to his home, but not dwelling on it for too long, the financial adjutant excused himself once a bodyguard came into view on Rasmussen's end of the call. The guard was lean, and of Chinese descent, with a silver pony-tail and a sharp black turtleneck and blazer, and a hawkish nose "Sir, Ms Xavier is waiting for you in the lounge" The guard informed him. Tapping the table's bright blue touch-screen control tablet, the view of Mr Gale in the boardroom faded away into pixels. Standing up and stepping away from the couch, Rasmussen went back down the hallway and in the same path he always went to the lounge at the front of the property, until another, darker-skinned bodyguard stepped into his path "Sir; it's almost midnight. The terminal will be activating again soon"

"Ah, I understand. Thank you" Rasmussen nodded "See that Ms Xavier is refreshed, and keep her in the lounge until I say otherwise" He commanded, now turning on his heel towards his study, and like some well-oiled steam train, he set out on another predetermined path down the halls of his home. Going from the second floor down to the ground floor, then to the smaller back-rooms and libraries, he traveled the path with expertly precise footsteps. Shrouded in shadow and mystery, the dark underbelly of his mansion was revealed when he descended below the staircase in his study; behind the two double doors was a single thin hallway leading to a grimy and stained metal-yellow bolted gateway. A door like no other in the house, Rasmussen looked to walk straight ahead. Moving like a ghoul, Rasmussen raised his head when he got to the iron door, he stuck a thumb into a glowing red keypad, and soon it slowly opened to unleash a heavenly light. Gliding inside and coming to a glowing pedestal that seemed to shine, the mogul glanced up to a humongous and ongoing wall of white light, that looked like it had no end. It just kept on going like he was trapped in a circle, or a dome. Some few seconds after he had walked inside, he placed a slow hand on the pedestal, which made a whirring noise until a single logo appeared in the heavenly whiteness of the new abode. A flashing red triangle with a small and long black line above it. In a technological typeface, a line of letters formed words, and those words formed a sentence, all in front of Rasmussen's glazed eyes.

MAIN SC-1 - 00:00:00

WHAT_ARE_YOUR_COMMANDS

_?_

The words filed out in a perfect line and stayed for a few readable seconds. Below the words was Samaritan's logo, a red triangle and a thin black line. A blinking indicator followed, and three small black dots that buffered on the gigantic screen. Removing his spectacles for once, Rasmussen went to fold them and neatly place them in his pocket, looking into the white expanse, he remembered what he had been told as an international operative - and Samaritan's public asset. Coughing once, he straightened his tie with two hands and stood a little straighter. Staring up, he took a few seconds to compose himself, stroking his goatee, he laid both hands beside his sides and stood in a neutral posture, smirking slightly, he finally regarded the words on the screen, and the blinking lights. This was to be the start of a new beginning, a new world and a new day that Samaritan would see too. Day by day, the influence would not be felt, nothing would change, but underneath, the tectonic plates of power would shift, and Samaritan would reveal itself in spectacular fashion - it's servants, enigmatic men like Greer, Rasmussen and Lambert would rise with it, and in ever loyal service. They'd be rewarded in infinity for the part they'd play. So to seal it all, to begin a new branch of service, Rasmussen opened his cold lips.

"Oh, I assure you it's quite the other way around. The question is what...my master Samaritan, are your commands...for me?"

 _Author's epilogue: and so I return! Thank you for your feedback and continued of my series, and I'm sure that the community has missed me greatly! I'll be sure to start writing more and posting regularly. So for now, enjoy this teasing morsel!_

 _With love, alongusername._


	19. Chapter 19 (18 Part 2): Harlem

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: JULY 31st 2006

LOCATION: New Hampshire, MAINE, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: North Berwick - [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

CB.C POST CAM 5 - 00:24:09

The compound had fallen dark, past the turn of midnight, and that was the first thing that she expected, all the looping street lamps that lit up the shell-like barracks had turned off, and it had left in her the pitch-black expanse of the training camp. Walking out of the gun range with a long and cylinder-shaped duffel back slung over her shoulder, Martine went to her own barracks - in section C-B-C.

Her journey was long, and with the words of Virgil still in her head, she had to shake them loose. The only single thought left was the truth of his remark; she would be the target of some assault, like some twisted ritual to test her metal. But she wouldn't break as easily as Virgil's comments suggested.

She could still remember his perturbed and ignorant face, his blessing of youth and intelligence, something that was still radiating from Martine.

Checking over her shoulder every few steps, she had to be much more cautious than normal, this night wouldn't end peacefully, she thought to herself. These attackers could come from every shadow, Virgil would have told them everything no doubt; so surprise would be their ally. Back in the U.N., Martine would have survived on her wit and her words, but in Decima, they respected strength - that's why men like Holloway and Bryant were so successful.

It must have been hard for them, but they went through a similar process, Martine rationalised.

Approaching the barracks at last, Martine considered going through the front door, the main entrance would be obvious, but it would also be the first thing they'd expect. Not wanting to think out loud, she dropped her sack of belongings by the door, as if she went to open it, and then slipped around the corner. Her platform heeled-shoes clicking quickly across the compound floor as she skipped to the end of the Anderson-Shelter like barracks.

She'd have to reach the door somehow without drawing any unneeded attention to herself. It would have to be short, quick, and silent. Her pale pink hand and black-painted fingernails went to push the door, as her eyes squinted into the shadow.

Then, and without warning, she was grabbed from behind. Thrown back, a ghoul of a figure was leering in front of her, dressed in khaki black, the figure (clearly a Male, nearly middle-aged, with a thin beard and grey hair) lunged at her suddenly.

Martine dodged, and blocked a lazy strike to her head. So it begun. The ghost then charged at her with a long kick, which she evaded. Putting her fists up, Martine barely had time to tie her dirty blonde hair up just as another shadow grabbed for her, this one was much quicker as it managed to sink a punch into her ribs.

Reeling in shock, Martine scrambled for some distance, and span a boot to the larger attacker, who was caught in the chest by the strike, winding him briefly. "You shouldn't have come here, girl, and now we'll make you pay" The thinner man told her, with a malicious chuckle, the second assailant was younger, with patchy skin and a unique scar across his cheek, reminding Martine of The Venator. Just as he struck at her, she ducked to the side and struck back with a right cross, and a hearty noise of impact was heard next, and the attacker stumbled back, cursing.

Until a third revealed himself, much more muscled, this wannabe-assassin threw a brutal punch that nearly knocked Martine off her feet and took her by surprise; just as she suspected.

The third man was stocky, and tall, like a combination of the other previous attackers. Martine then remembered Virgil's very words 'but if you stand and fight, they'll follow you to the deepest valley' his words rang in her brain until the quicker attacked dived for her.

Martine took his arm and held it as she swung him around, bending his elbow upwards, she locked his throat in her forearm, and felt his chest for any obvious weapons as she showed off his helpless body to his companions. Struggling, she found a single switchblade in a pocket of his brown jacket, which she knocked from it's position, and left it clattering on the floor.

The other two men advanced still, slower than before, but still anxiously awaiting the next time to attack her. With an already bleeding lip and some nearly cracked ribs, Martine drew her own ace card, a suppressed Walther PPK handgun.

Taking it from her back pocket, she held it out in front of them, the point of the silencer tagged on the largest assassin, he soon was dropping to his knees in shame.

"Please, please don't kill us" The leaner one begged, once Martine switched targets to him. The man in her grasp had suddenly gone quiet and docile, making no attempt to strike at her now. All that training in the firing range must have made her more of a threat, these men realised, and if Virgil's accounts have been true.

"You'll find I'm a better shot than Virgil told you, so who's got any bright ideas about what happens next?" She pondered to them, keeping this sights of her pistol focussed on each of them.

"There's a mission...we were testing people for it, Decima is moving against the ISA. Holloway wants us to bring him the best of the recruits" The bulkier one explained. The logic behind that was highly questionable, even by her standards. Attacking recruits is somehow a good way to recruit them for active combat-missions? Martine thought. "You've got a fucked up way of thinking, but I guess Holloway's word is law here" Martine surmised.

The ISA? Now that was a new one, she thought that Connor may have mentioned them once or twice, but never gave her a good enough explanation to know why Decima wanted to march on them.

"So does this mean, then?" She waved her pistol at the scene in front of her, the two black-clad assassins stood hunched over in front of her, as she wielded a silenced pistol and held of them hostage in her arm. "I guess you get the position, lady, you'll know when it's time to move out" The leaner one commented to her, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. She stepped back to give herself some distance in case they wanted to resume the assault, and she then dropped the man she held from her grip. He fell forwards, and crawled back to his friends.

"And tell Chris I said hi" Martine snarked, knowing that Virgil would somehow hear about this. The attackers fled shortly after, picking up the dropped switchblade and fleeing into the night, towards the armoury and the vehicle parking.

Now stood in the dark, Martine walked over to the wall of her barracks and fell back on her knees, exhausted from the stress, she breathed into her own legs and smiled, laughing at the situation and then her own perception.

Looks like she'd be taking some time away from this base after all.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 10th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

INTERROGATION RM A11 - 03:23:42

"Is he awake?" A curious and distinguished voice cut through the fuzzing haze of Cayden's viewpoint. He saw nothing but a collection of shapes in a bright white room, he was sat down at a cold metal table, with his numb hands handcuffed to a metal pole across the table.

Stuttering, Cayden Hayward rocked his body back and forth as a cleanly-cut face backed away from him, with stubble growing on his chin and dressed in a grey overcoat and dark suit, the obviously British National seemed intrigued with the captive.

"I'm sure he'll be a lot more fun conscious, Sir" The man rambled into an earpiece, taking his finger away from it, he set his coat down across his own chair in the bright room, and sat down. The lights were seeping into his unprepared retinas, he had been drugged with something to keep him subdued in wherever he was - he had little real awareness of anything so far - just the face of the woman who tased him.

Before Cayden could utter any manner of sloppy and unrefined sentences, the posh and proper man begun proceedings in a narration-style vocal tone.

"Do you remember...the first time you realised there was something greater than yourself? Some people never experience such a state of grace. Not everyone is meant to" The voice began, making Cayden feel lucid, he stared lifelessly at the fuzzy background of the room.

"But you merely have to ask and we can show the face of a god" The narration continued by this mysterious constant "Or we can wipe your slate clean. So which one will it be Hayward?" The voice finally became clear as Cayden's vision came back to him. He was in a steel cage of a room, sealed and trapped in a grey and white box.

Across from him was that same silhouette of the suited man, his voice much clearer now. "The choice is yours. We'll start by asking you a few questions" He spoke in a neighbourly manner, pulling his chair up next to Cayden's shackled seat.

"Do you remember your job? Your family? What about the name of your child? You're hiding him, why?" The English man questioned him, casually regarding Cayden with friendly eyes, as the man across the table was wordless.

"There was a school, that he attended...he and the other children played for hours, talking and talking, until your son talked too much, and he started to get bored of playing with swings and roundabouts...and he started playing with emotions, the other children's emotions" The man divulged, attempting to catch Cayden's drugged attention.

In his slumber, Hayward coughed a response, noticing a plain mirror-like wall (most likely a two-way viewing screen)

"There's not much that gets a rise out of you, is there? The DOD has taught you well. So let's play a game" Lambert said optimistically in the interrogation room.

While on the other side, stood a cabal of Samaritan's best. Greer and Martine headed the front of the pack, nearest to the two-way mirror, behind them was Murrow and Barrett, enforcers and thugs, and behind them was Flint, a herald and spymaster. Wordlessly, Greer congratulated his female aide on the execution of Hayward's capture. Martine was humble, and remained in her position, listening to the live audio from the interrogation room.

"How many doses did Dr Wendell give him? He's practically psychosomatic" Murrow judged, looking at Cayden's glazed eyes. No one replied, preferring not to think about any of that. Knowing what had to be done, Greer pressed the intercom to speak into Lambert's earpiece "We need a location, Mr Lambert, we need to locate his son" Greer instructed menacingly.

Samaritan had informed them that Cayden was no longer the mould for their Analog Interface, it was some young boy, Cayden's offspring. As Lambert began his 'game' in the interrogation room, Greer stepped away for a minute, clearly his legendary patience was starting to waver.

"Mr Barrett, you have the room. Inform me if he breaks" Greer grumbled, as Barrett took his post arrogantly.

STEINER HALLWAY CAM 028 - 03:29:30

Marching out the room, Martine and Murrow followed the black-suited Greer as he straightened his blue checkered tie and met with an analyst just outside of the control rooms. "Colorado, Hokkaido, and now Washington. We're bleeding operatives, panic is spreading in New York and now we're axing our own?" The Analyst (named Sykes) worried to his boss, but the ever-calm Flint had a cold-hearted reply as always "Hayward is a traitor, and he would have caused incalculable damage to us"

"So he definitely won't be the last. This is exactly what our enemy wants. We need to be fighting the sickness, not the symptom" Sykes spoke with concern, as Murrow folded his arms and flanked Greer. Stepping to his other side, Martine guarded on his right side, her hand touching her hip slightly.

"Then we have just the tool for the job" Flint suggested, looking to Greer, who's wrinkled face was masked by the low lighting and the dark corners of the hallway.

"The ISA, Farnham must have warned you about negotiating with them" Greer confirmed.

"Indeed. But Travers can handle Control and her government, everyone hates knowledge until you offer them some" Flint said chillingly. "As for the ISA, they speak the enemy's language, we need them to lure out Team Machine" He reiterated, informing a concerned Sykes.

"And once we have eradicated this...Team Machine, what do we do with the ISA then?" Murrow butted in, Greer looked on at him with pride, clearly his lessons in intuition had been working on the former paratrooper. Flint pressed his fingers together "I'm sure we'd cross that bridge when we get there, but for now, it's-"

Sykes glanced at Martine, but in her lethal silence, he spoke instead "The fact remains, we still can't locate them. We're shadowboxing, and Samaritan still doesn't know who we're up against" The Analyst worried. Meanwhile, Greer had finally had his fill of watching from the sidelines.

"We'll cover all eventualities, Mr Sykes, comb the telecommunications networks, the subway cameras, university campuses, whatever source of information you can. As long as Harold Finch and his pitiful little band lives, Samaritan will never have full dominion over this country, and will the world will continue it's division. For the sake of the future, we must find them" Greer's powerful words motivated them all, as Murrow offered a stately nod.

Shrinking away, Sykes pulled down the sleeves of his mossy green sweater, and his sea-blue shirt underneath, he gave a weak smile of agreement and retreated back through a heavily bucked door and into one of the various control rooms at the side of the hallway. Going to step down the corridor, Murrow turned at the sound of Barrett's voice.

"Sir, we have something" He reported.

Back in the shielded room of the interrogation zone, Greer stared through the glass towards a beaten and warped Cayden, who seemed to be even more dreamy than normal. "While Hayward was busy being unresponsive, Samaritan was working on thousands of background checks, besides it's initial profiling of him, Samaritan also found this through facial recognition" Barrett showed them the screen of a computer.

A class photograph, the date was early 2013. Showing a parent and child meet-up at a school in New Rochelle, Westchester County. The subjects identified were undoubtedly Hayward and his son, stood in profile and posed for the picture. His son was small, and with hazel-coloured hair and a pleasant face, dressed smartly, like his father. "Is the boy still in attendance?" Greer inquired, Barrett nodded and pointed towards a digital classroom register that Samaritan had discovered.

Greer looked down to the computer screen, and the modernistic Samaritan all-White interactive interface appeared "What is to be done about the Hayward boy?"

... ... ...

BRING_HIM_TO_ME_

The orders had been given. Making a noise to confirm, Greer folded his lips inwards, and turned. Quickly, the Admin and Primary Asset addressed the room of his best soldiers, and commanded each of them.

"Contact Zachary, I want a surveillance net around that school. Find this boy and bring him to the Steiner, no doubt he's in panic without his father - and prepare a holding cell for Mr Hayward" Greer finished, then sauntering with purpose, he left the room with nothing more. Flint followed at once, snivelling.

Walking in a three-pronged formation towards the garage, Martine led Murrow and Barrett to reinforce Zachary at the school. Unfolding his sunglasses, the black-uniformed Murrow opened the door to the large garage, which was stacked with weapons and vehicles.

Wearing her plain black sleeveless shirt, combat jeans and high-heeled boots, Martine had her golden blonde hair up in a professional bun as she tucked her SIG-Sauer P229R into her back pocket. Watching the other Assets load up, Martine eyed the ball-like camera that moved onto her. Giving it a two-fingered salute, she mounted into the SUV just as it pulled away, heading for New Rochelle.

Viewing the disembarking of the motorcade, Lambert walked to the windows in his chrome dress-shoes, a smirk twisting at his slick red lips as he watched Barrett and Martine check their weapons before getting into the cars.

Beside him, a Samaritan Operative stood now shoulder-to-shoulder with Lambert. He had approached silently, and Lambert made no effort to seem shocked. They were around the same height, with Jeremy a little taller, but only by a hair or so. This agent was one of Samaritan's Lead Ops, and a strong hand of enforcement in the new world that the ASI was building.

"Shouldn't you be going with them, Mr Thorndyke" Lambert guessed, fixing his cufflinks.

"I don't abduct children. I'll leave that to thugs like them" He dipped his eyes to the motorcade that pulled away from the Steiner's main gate. A few faint seconds passed before Jeremy tutted "Surely you'd do whatever Samaritan requests-"

"If Samaritan commands us to torture children, then Samaritan is evil"

Thorndyke faced Jeremy in this moment, but the Brit refused to give him any acknowledgement. "Who said anything about torture?" Lambert responded calmly.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 23rd 2012

LOCATION: Harlem, Manhattan, NEW YORK CITY, USA

LENOX AVE. POST 48:15 - 16:23:42

Barley making the journey alive, a bloodied and beaten woman stumbled to a respite on a street of New York, as a box-like camera watched her from above. On a post tall and high across the street, the life of that camera would be much easier than the life of Evelyn Floyd. Surviving Copperhead's assassination attempt, there was one destination she had to reach. One that would ensure her further survival.

She had no idea who else Elias sent after her, Copperhead was simply the first wave, and she could still remember her bronze hair flipping like a coil of snakes attached to her head.

Limping through a crowd and under a Zenith-Media Corp billboard, Floyd ducked in the crowd, keeping her eyes to her boots, she slipped across the road and onto the left sidewalk.

Seeing a wave of faces, dulled by her pain, they were reduced to a fleet of masks, talking in incoherent tongues, and any one of them could have had a blade or a suppressed firearm. Elias's influence was everywhere, from the streets to the Stock Exchange. She had ran from HR, the Yogorov's Syndicate, and the Salamanca's Cartel.

But never had she had to swivel her head as much as when she was being chased by Elias. His menace was in his mystery, no one had ever seen him, enforcing his will through his servants like Scarface.

That was how the crime-lord inspired so much hatred and so much fear at the same time. 'The best way for a man to disappear is to appear' A teacher had once told her.

That statement seemed too true in the case of Elias.

Hiding in a shop's foyer from two bumbling police officers, Floyd trekked back out onto the street, towards a cramped apartment block that stretched up into the smoke; and the domain of one her friends, someone she could call on during times of need.

She remembered dragging Copperhead's light carcass to the elevator, and dumping it inside the basement of the car-park, in the dank darkness of the cement pillars and the crawling rats.

Forgetting to even strip her of weapons or her phone, it was probable that Elias already knew that Floyd had escaped.

Approaching the apartment block, she pulled on the tails of her coat, trying to hide her bruised wrists and bleeding thigh from the fight with the hitwoman. Dodging a selection of pedestrians, Floyd kept her head low, trying to hide.

New York was big enough, the sprawling city made the odds of running into someone who knew you shockingly small, but the odds hadn't been in Floyd's favour today, or yesterday for that matter. Finally reaching the steps of the block, she forced her way up the stairs, gripping onto the bannister with blood-stained fingers.

Finding the buzzer, and reading the name, she pressed it down gently and spoke into the metal intercom.

"Hey, Link. It's Floyd. I could really use you right about now" She panted, as her breath started to get cold in the blowing and sharp Manhattan air.

Waiting for what felt like an infinity, she was tricked endlessly by everyone coming and going from the apartment, except the person she wanted.

Now crumpled on the bottom step of the apartments, and with her hands cuddling her chest, Floyd kept her head low when she saw movement. Until the call of her name turned her head to the door. "Floyd, come on in"

A dark skinned and informally dressed man stood casually in the doorway, his dark hazel eyes carefully studying her, Link Cordell jogged down the steps and extended his bruised hand to hers. A member of a rising street-group, Link was holdout in a safe bunker apartment, somewhere that Floyd could easily hide for now.


	20. Chapter 20: Acquisition

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: NOVEMBER 6th 2008

LOCATION: Coos Bay, Coos County, OREGON, USA

ZONE M 09 - 06:20:53

- **SURVEILLANCE INTERRUPTED** -

REQUESTING MAINTENANCE_

"That's number nine, Janus. Left, thirteen degrees. Upwards, five meters"

ZONE M 10 - 06:21:00

- **SURVEILLANCE INTERRUPTED** -

REQUESTING MAINTENANCE_

"Bingo. That'll do, let's move on to the next sector" A hoarsely arrogant voice said in the deep forest background of the bay. Holding a pair of large binoculars, the eagle-eyed spotter lowered his apparatus to view the scenic sights of the lake in front of them. The man had a thick, spade-shaped beard and a short and rodent-like face. He wore khakis and tactical gear, holding a sidearm on his chest, and a scarf draped around his neck. Speaking in a thinly-veiled foreign accent, the man descended from some rock formation at the top of the lake.

His companion, called Janus, was more stoic. He was stooped and sinister of body, with a bent shoulder and coarse, rough features. Wearing a long overcoat and carrying a Nemesis Arms Vanquish Sniper Rifle - with an attached scope and a railed handguard, Janus pointed it around the edge of the tree-line, scouting for any more cameras.

Their cabal of schemers had been hiding in these woods for weeks without any interruption, and they had been clearing the zone-marked cameras day after day. Janus dropped down the rock formations and started to prowl across the side of the bay, in the cobblestones and pebbles that made up the harsh beaches.

A large body of water protected them from any interference from the outside world, and allowed a perfected cloak to hide in. Janus's hunting companion took out a radio in the meantime "We'll clear zone N within the hour, then we'll return to base camp" He spoke into the radio.

"Roger, spotting team, clear the forest to the west, then get back here" The radio fed back to them through static, as they trooped towards the forest via a desolate footbridge that lay across the crystal waters. Like a painting, the trees were on the border of the mountain backgrounds of Oregon, and the wide and foggy hills of the woods. Janus spat onto the rock below, as he slung the rifle over his shoulder on it's strap.

With the rush of the water slapping against the stones of the beach, the two former military soldiers were mere spots in the distance. Hiding on the outskirts of America had given them many advantages, and would still serve them well in the coming months once they made their impact on society forever. Using fear and surprise, they'd strike at the heart of this consumerism and corporate-ruled America, and bring back the fatherland that they had secretly sworn too.

Soon enough the assault on the American mainland capital would be done, and the new brotherhood would rise into eternity, a wise and feared group of kingmakers, striking down any opposition and ruling from the shadows. Janus offered a toothless smile as he prepped to take out the next set of digital eyes.

Targeting the furthest camera, Janus dropped to one knee and held the rifle in both hands, and tightening the scope up, as his companion Fredrick pointed out the position. In a silenced shot, the camera bled sparks and fell from the tree. Moving the barrel sideways along the ridge of the tree-line, he located the second camera in the zone and fired again - another burst of yellow electricity and an explosion of metal - and the box-like camera had fallen. Laughing, Fredrick always found humour in destruction, and was the most animated of the group.

"Good shootin' Tex" Fredrick mocked an accent as they travelled to the next section of trees and hidden surveillance posts. Janus was still mute on the matter. Approaching a line of tall pine-trees, Janus took aim again, listening to his colleague's advice, and then pulling the trigger. Done.

It would always be quick with Janus, he'd never mince his actions, preferring to go straight to business. He was born for efficiency, even his hair was cut to a short grey stubble, and his deep near-black eyes gave off no emotion.

Fredrick picked up a pebble from the mound of rocks in front of them on the beach, he checked his footing and skimmed the pebble over the fresh water lake, watching it bounce and skip across the water, for the first few seconds, it masked the low rumbling they heard at their feet. As Janus made preparations to shoot out another camera, he stopped, looking up to the sky.

The clouds were still a grey and blue-hued mess of fluff, nothing had changed there. But the stones were being shaken by something that was far more...artificial.

Fredrick scanned the horizon, while Janus noticed more storm-like and intense ripples coming from the lake, and then something coming from the tree-line, he pointed a long and withered finger, getting his partner's attention finally.

A convoy of unmarked black-painted UH-60 BlackHawk helicopters started to rise from the wooded hills, escorting a much bulkier grey Boeing CH-47 Chinook Helicopter heading directly towards them. The influence of the rotors had already started to shift the air around the water and the tall trees.

The closest advancing BlackHawk helicopter had an attached row of heavy weaponry jutting from it's sides. Janus saw rocket and missile pods, Gatling guns and laser-guided torpedos, all aimed downwards towards them. Fredrick started to slowly back away, as if he was approached by some sleeping Bengal tiger. "Janus, run" He said slowly. Then run they did.

The choppers started to get closer to them, Fredrick reached for his radio as they ran into the forest behind them, racing to get off the exposed land of the beach. Not thinking about the fact that they were - in truth - leading an enemy straight to their base. Fleeing into the field of lofty green oaks and pines, they jumped over the roots and brushed past the low-hanging branches.

"Come in, base camp, come in!" Fredrick panicked, yelling into his handheld radio as he drew his sidearm - a rusted brown CZ-75.

Base camp responded just as soon "We've picked up several bogeys on the radar, what's going on down there?"

"They've finally come for us, prepare the men, here we'll make our stand!" Fredrick hollered. With the strength of the helicopters pushing the heat of the engines to their backs, Fredrick and Janus didn't have long to go to get back to the camp in the woods.

Based in an old farmhouse in a clearing flanked by corn-fields, the militia had been building strength for months untouched; until today. Fredrick hopped over some weaving roots as he ran to the old and broken wooden gate in front of him. Covered in leafs and growing in mould, he used the wooden stakes to climb over, Janus following behind. The lead and armed helicopter passed over their heads with malicious speed and intent. Bearing no logo, it had to be a government enforcement transport. FBI? CIA? Some division of the US Army?

Gripping his radio, Fredrick pushed it to his lips and screamed through the static receiver "Get out of the barn, now!"

"Get out of the wha?-" Was the last thing that came back as the armed chopper shot out a heat-seeking missile, it fired with a second to spare, leaving a trail of white smoke like a dragon's fire, the rocket sped into the large barn, causing a plume of debris and fire to explode from every window and door. Nanoseconds later, the entire building was engulfed in a wave of red and orange flame and dust. The embers flicked out of the corpse of the barn, and then the blinding heat hit Fredrick - pushing him back, he was in the ground long enough to watch the other Helicopters land, and dispense armoured soldiers.

The heavy tactical troops marched towards the burning and smouldering remains of the farmhouse's barn, wearing full-body armour and tactical gear, all carrying an M27 Infantry Automatic Rifle, with a laser sight and rails, they cross-stepped towards the husk of the broken building.

Advancing in groups of eight, the helicopters they arrived in landed two by two, and finally the Chinook; which stored another 45 fully-armoured stealth Troopers. A small army had descended on their ramshackle base, this wouldn't be a fight, this would be a slaughter.

Fredrick watched with a hapless look as the army advanced to the barn, he could see the reflective lights of the choppers when they pulled away in tornado winds, and the slow silhouettes of the soldiers once it reached sunrise, and the darkness started to fade.

INTERNAL-NET [FARMHOUSE CAM 3C] - 06:38:10

"This is Crimson One Alpha, all strike-teams are ready and in position, How copy?" The commanding Agent spoke into his helmet-mounted radio, feeding his camera's view back to the operational base at Washington.

"You are go Crimson One!" A baritone voice responded with a powerful expression.

"Copy, Special Counsel, moving in" Crimson One replied, as he made a two-fingered hand signal to his men. All combing the ruin as one, separate teams broke off into smaller groups and started to check individual areas. Making steady progress, they witnessed the flaky and charred corpses of men and women in the barn, strewn in various positions, with their bodies leaking flame and choking smoke. "Advancing to sector two, I've got eyes on the location"

Meanwhile, Fredrick and Janus made no attempt to move, both hiding in the trees that bordered the farmhouse base, they tried to think of a way to contact the rest of the militants that hadn't been blown up by the helicopter. "Massey's dead, probably, but I think Chekhov is still alive, he's supposed to be scouting, like us" Fredrick thought out loud, theorising. Still observing the moves by the squadrons of soldiers, he saw flashes and echoes of gunfire in the distance of the cornfield.

"We've got one target! Engaging!" An ISA Trooper shouted as one crazed militant fired off a Ruger P89, missing on every shot, the militia fighter was dispatched by a calculated tactic; one Trooper drew his fire by cutting across the cornfield in an obvious flanking move, while another played sniper and shot at the casually-clothed terrorist. "Tango is down. Moving onto the west side of the cornfield" The ISA Trooper relayed to the mission leader, who put in a request up the command chain.

"We're encountering resistance on the ground; request permission for another aerial strike"

"Denied! They came out of the house to protect whatever or whoever is in it, so take out the resistance, and get in there!" The baritone voice growled harshly. Crimson One had to agree, so he did, and the mission continued.

Sweeping through the cornfields, a squad broke off to survey the woods next, checking for survivors.

Still covered in the low brush, Janus was checking how many targets he could see, or at least the ones closest to him. Making the sign of eight with his fingers, the mute man scowled back at Fredrick when he stole the Sniper from him "They're sealing off the house, we have to warn Chekhov" He said as he loaded his CZ-75, and took a breath in.

Filling his lungs one last time, he stood up with some effort and patted Janus on the shoulder twice. "You've been a good man; and one hell of a conversationalist" Fredrick congratulated as he made a break for the house.

Darting for the cornfield, Fredrick rolled into the cover of the long-grass and the storks of corn. Seeing the searchlights of the Troopers pass again, he held both hands on his gun, and stalked towards the white-planked house.

There was at least four people he still knew were alive; among the countless dead, Chekhov, his partner Mara, Alec and Marco had to still be alive.

Moving lightly towards the antique farmhouse, Crimson One Alpha and his personal guard of seven other agents prepared to breach the stronghold. Positioned at the door, Indigo Six Alpha and Crimson Three Beta (or known as 'Fox') were stood ready with flash-bang grenades. About to deploy them when Crimson One broke down the door, a ping of a sniper fire was heard near to the group. Suddenly, one of the rear-guard Agents fell back in a puff of smoke.

"Sniper! Get to cover! Spread out!" Crimson One snapped to his men, dodging a shot that grazed near his shoulder.

A third blast knocked down an agent near the west cornfields. "Indigo Squad, move around to the east and take out that sniper!" Crimson One instructed.

"Janus" Fredrick whispered as he saw the stone-faced man taking potshots with his rifle from his covered position. As the firefight began, he made a run for the house, dropping his radio on the way, Fredrick pulled out a hunting knife to defend himself with when he got closer to the grounds of the house. Slipping under the picket-fence he rolled towards the back-door entrance in one movement.

Another Agent fell like a scarecrow in the field. Then another, and taking aim to the soldier marked with red highlights, this was the veteran and the clear leader (as he took position at the head of the feeling group, seeking cover behind the house) Janus reloaded his sniper rifle, and checked where Fredrick was.

Popping the head of a Trooper not far from him, Janus resumed his work. Blasting another armoured solider, the uniforms of these men clearly weren't as strong as they looked.

Janus fixed his sights on the leader, until he quickly went back to Fredrick, who had been cornered by a pair of grey-armoured Troops, he quickly prepared to fire, lining up his reticle...

Until a sharp and dividing pain hit his back. He had been impacted by a bullet.

Before he could turn around, another shot pierced him, and finally two more, putting the grievous man out of his misery. The silenced bullets cut into him, as the figure stood above was another ISA Agent in full tactical armour and a haunting gas-mask, holding a suppressed Smith & Wesson Bodyguard 380. A member of Catalyst Indigo. Putting a gloved finger to her earpiece, the Agent radioed into Crimson One.

"The sniper is down, Sir, you're all clear to breach the bunker" She said in a voice full of spunk and wit.

"Well done Indigo Five, sweep the forest and get back here - but good job Shaw"

Now the road was clear, the guardsmen Agents started on the house again, preparing to breach, Crimson One gave the silent signal, a motion of his hand, and he kicked open the door with a crash. The Agents flanking him at the door popped their grenades and threw them inside, and from there, they unleashed the power of the ISA on all inside. Blasting and reaping, they secured the targets in the inner bunker, and silenced all rebellion, but the real battle was about to begin, and it was far from Oregon.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 10th 2014

LOCATION: New Rochelle, NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: BLESSED SACRAMENT-ST. JONATHON HIGH SCHOOL

ENTRANCE CAM A - 04:19:57

Through the blackened windows of the SUV, the school looked like a strange castle, some museum that had been abandoned long ago. The group of five cars pulled up one by one in front of the concrete platform that formed the centre stairs up to the doors of the school. "Samaritan is picking up a heat signature from inside the school, it has to be the boy" The analyst Sykes told them from his post back at the Steiner Hospital.

"At this time? I hope this kid's worth it, because he's gotta be crazy" Barrett grumbled when the cars pulled to a halt. The doors all opened simultaneously and the squadron of Assets stepped out, lead by the gigantic Zachary in his funeral-coloured suit. Martine elegantly disembarked the SUV with a single step, and checked her weapon as the Assets formed a group to discuss an approach.

"I'll take the north entrance. Martine, Barrett, you'll cover the east wing, and Murrow is already on intercept at the west side" Zachary stormed, already taking off on his feet towards the front double-doors of the school. "Orders?" Zachary soon requested, as he pulled open the doors at the entranceway.

As always, Samaritan responded with a volley of electronic garbles in it's technological tones "LEVEL TWO. HALLWAY F. TARGET FOR EXTRACTION - CLASSROOM 5" Samaritan detailed. Zachary marched onwards with purpose towards the nearest set of tiled stairs.

Looking at the brightly coloured cardboard displays that covered the dark walls of the east wing, Martine was faced with old memories of her own school; The halls would be crowded with people, and the chaos would be perfect, like a movie.

There would have been the couple that was always making out on the left side of the hall, and about ten feet further down, the clique of girls. Opposite them, the clique of jocks, and between them, the parade of band geeks with their huge instrument cases. There would be the rogue kids who never did anything but make paper airplanes and the fashion kids that wheeled mannequins and clothing racks down the halls. But then there was Martine, who didn't fit into any of those groups. Naturally, her mind went to Tommy, who would-

"Hey, Rousseau, orders just came in. Zachary wants us on the second floor" Barrett said verbatim.

Shaking her head slightly, Martine untucked her SIG-Sauer from her pocket, and continued down the east hallways of the school. Her face would be cast in shadow, and then in the artificial lights. Somehow, all the doors to the school were open, not a thing seem disturbed, innocent and carefree, the school was untouched by time itself. Noticing the hidden camera in a glass trophy cabinet, Martine admired her reflection slightly, as Samaritan selected the camera to view it's Assets.

TROPHY CB CAM 1 - 04:25:18

 **ASSET/029**

 **ASSET/1561**

Barrett gestured up to the stairs, and heard the steps of the other agents around the school. Silently, they both ascended the steps towards the second level. Passing pictures of the school and several fancily-dressed teachers standing with the most recent class-pet. Martine rolled her eyes when catching a picture of the headmistress, a rather stuffy woman called Lawton.

"Looks like you've got company in there, Samaritan just picked up three extra targets, and they're converging on the boy" Sykes mentioned through the comms, just as they skipped up to the top of the steps and onto the second floor.

They all seemed to arrive at the door to Classroom Five at the same time, as Barrett raised his arm to signal the agents down the corridor, they matched his gesture; confirming it was them. Zachary got to the door first, gripping his burly hand on the clean brass doorknob while taking out his Suppressed Glock 23, as the rest of the Assets did the same. Hearing voices, Barrett signalled his men on the precise moment to enter the room. Holding three fingers up, then two, and finally one.

In a flurry of motion, Martine played her part perfectly. She ducked to her knees and scanned the area once the Asset squadron broke into the classroom. Blue walls, two large and empty black-boards on the right and at the front of the room, blocked-out windows and filling cabinets filling every gap in-between the desks and chairs. Shelves of old books, a white-painted radiator, and stacks of old wooden tables.

In the middle of the room; four targets. Three were adults, all dressed in brown and red military gear - looked like militia. They turned on a dime and pulled out Heckler & Koch MP5K-PDWs and aimed to fire.

Zachary took the first shot, putting three bullets in the nearest militia member, Martine skidded across the classroom floor on her knees, popping the next gunman in the head with a single shot. Finally, before he could react, Barrett and another Agent (Who Samaritan knew as Asset 1014) both fired at the same time, taking down the last threat in a chest-bursting display of guts and holes.

In the middle of all the fighting, stood an emotionless 10-year-old.

Wearing loafers, tan suit-slacks, a green sweater and a red-collared shirt, the boy had soft and matted brown hair, it curved forward in a sweeping way, as his face remained calm and calculated, and he said nothing. He had a stillness, a resting posture and the emotion of someone who had already mastered all of life's aspects. In his hand, he held a cellphone, which pulsed a white light.

Zachary was the first to approach "Hello, Gabriel. My name is Zachary" He opened with, as the boy's piercing blue eyes resembled crystals, marking each of the men and women in the room.

Gabriel locked eyes with the lead agent, his voice tender and kind, and surprisingly thought-provoking for his age.

"You work for my father, don't you?" Gabriel said. He focussed on Martine, who stepped close to Zachary, and indicated with a finger towards the phone that the child held. Her superior gave a callus nod, and she approached slowly, making an effort to sheath her sidearm, Martine knelt down to him, a smile tweaking at her gentle red lips. Taking his limp hand, she took the phone from the boy, and glanced down at the pulsing white screen.

On the screen of the handset was a plain white background, then a small red triangle faded into view, followed by a small black line, and the signature blinking dots of Samaritan's interface.

...

I_HAVE_SAVED_HIM_

...

ANALOG_INTERFACE_ACQUIRED

Zachary suddenly looked up, he was receiving instructions, Martine knew. Waiting for him to come out of his trance, she checked on Gabriel again. He seemed remarkably calm and his well-being was fine, which was incredibly odd, having just witnessed a full and enclosed firefight, and seeing three people be bloodied and killed by gunfire right in front of him.

In short time, Zachary came out of his commanding trance "Barrett, you and Arquette clean this up. Martine and I will take Gabriel back to the Steiner, Murrow is clear to cover our exit" He issued, and Barrett sniffed in agreement. Smartly, Martine took the boy by the hand, seeing a glimpse of herself in his eyes.

"Gabriel, we're part of a team who works for your father. Things right now are complicated, but I promise you they'll get real simple, real soon, okay?" Zachary explained.

"You don't have to lie to me. I knew about my father's work at the DOD, I planted a tracker in his laptop, and it led me to his work with DARPA - That's how I learned about you...at Decima Technologies" Gabriel spewed in the most eloquent of fashions, leaving all in the room stunned. With most people's mouths agape, Martine pondered curiously "How do you know all this?" She asked the boy.

"My father was always kind, but dim. It's my mother who's the interesting one - but I'm afraid she ran away long ago. The only thing she left me was this" He pointed to his skull, and in turn, his brain and mind.

"Occasionally it provides me with certain advantages, like teaching myself how to code, and how to operate intelligence systems, similar to the ones used to the American Government, and by yourselves" Gabriel revealed.

He knew about Samaritan? Perhaps they did share something in common after all, just as Greer said. Letting go of the child's hand, Martine ushered him to the door as Zachary followed. "I'll have Murrow send an extra car for you" Zachary told the men staying behind to clean up the bullets and bodies.

"Don't worry about that, Sir, it seems you've got a handful with your own problems" Arquette said in a throaty grovel and a chuckle, glancing briefly at Gabriel with emerald-green eyes.


	21. Chapter 21: Analog Interface

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: DECEMBER 11th 2006

LOCATION: Clifton, West New Brighton, NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: NEW YORK HARBOUR

DOCK PERIM CAM 7 - 23:50:23

Under the cloak of darkness, and the wintry air and the sky that has born only black clouds since November came, the harbour was as grey as a newspaper picture.

The sea has given up her blue, the stones showed no russet colours and the boats had taken on the monochrome look of the old movies. Even the air tasted more duller than ever. The wind whipped salt into eyelashes and onto exposed skin and all the while the boats and ferries ran across the distance with a clatter and whir, with the sounds of mechanical clunking.

On one of the piers that spanned out onto the waterfront, a massive gunmetal-grey supertanker had just plowed into the docks, clearing out all the ferries and water-taxis, the tanker was preparing to line up on one of the bays. It's hull were slabs of steel and looked nearly impenetrable from a distance, with a tall height, width and length, this tanker had everything a modern-day pirate dreaded.

Including a fleet of escort cars that lined up outside the moment the tanker came into view.

Stepping out the cars with shined shoes was a group of typical Men In Black, government agents that were most likely assigned to protect the shipment, and judging by the unmarked vessel - it wasn't carrying just some payload of oil. All wearing sunglasses in the dead of night, the leading man touched a figure to his obvious Bluetooth earpiece "Yes, Mr Hobbes, we've got eyes on the shipment"

Moving across the docking area's main gateway, a shadow slipped into the cover of a nearby warehouse. Followed by another silhouette, then one more. Holding a small green laser-pointer, the furthest shadow sent coded signals to the other side of the bay, and seconds later, another sequence of green lights came back.

"That's our backup, hopefully we shouldn't need them" Garrett said with a tense tone once each member of his team got to cover, looking back to Martine. This was her first assignment in Decima, to take control of a supertanker...with only three men. Wearing a zipped up and short leather jacket, some dull grey jeans and buckle-heavy boots, Martine had done her hair up into a hanging ponytail, and dressed her face with dark black makeup.

Garrett (her supervisor) Was a much more experienced man of action; a master-at-arms and a veteran soldier. He was handsome, dashing even, with red-gold hair and lean features, he wore a black thin shirt with tactical trousers and a selection of small sidearms. Garrett had brought his two protégés; a tomboyish girl called Cinder and a stubborn young man named Markus.

Martine liked Cinder much more than her companion; she was silent, mostly, with ash-coloured hair and a long face, she was skinny and athletic, and had the features of some pixie boy, with a dot nose and deep, hollow eyes.

They must have been the survivors of Virgil's trial by assault, as Martine could see the apprehension on their faces; this was the first mission for many, then.

A thought appeared to her suddenly, most likely Virgil was already a Decima Agent, and a advanced recruiter perhaps. He wasn't more senior than Holloway - who had been absent since Martine arrived in Decima's service.

"Sir, what exactly are we here to retrieve?" Markus asked, a twinge of ignorance in his voice.

Diligently, Garrett pointed to the lowering side-ramp of the supertanker, and prompted them to watch the proceedings. The black-suited agents stepped aside as grey-uniformed workers started to unload titanic crates and racks of equipment. Then they began to wheel out a number of six-foot tall boxes, marked 'RADIOACTIVE MATERIAL' in black stamps, which made Martine blink in confusion.

She remembered what the thugs who attacked her had said; that Decima was moving against the ISA. She hadn't managed to get any sufficient information from anyone about this group, but it didn't make any sense to her so far. Holding out hope for some explanation, she listened as Garrett divulged his plan, although she resented his language, she still had to pay attention.

"Listen up, recruits. Those boxes and crates are the key, but first we have to get past those agents - who I promise you are expecting some company - so be ready" He cautioned, indicating for them to follow.

Creeping to the other edge of the warehouse stealthily, Martine overheard chatter among the agents (who were most likely ISA, as they seemed to refer to each other in colours and designations)

"Make sure these crates get to the Hanford Site immediately, construction has to begin as soon as possible" One of the Agents said, patrolling the side of the dock.

Another, darker skinned man stood next to one of the crates, checking the shipping manifest, he tapped at it with a pen. "Only these larger boxes, the smaller servers all go to IFT"

"Servers?" Martine repeated, questioning it to Garrett. His face illuminated by the lamps of the warehouse, Garrett's expression became one of confrontational energy, as he cinematically drew his sidearm, which was a jet-black Heckler & Koch USP Compact which was outfitted with a long and slim silencer. Markus took out a Glock 19 in haste - and Cinder loaded her Walther P99 as Martine had her own SIG Sauer, a weapon she had been favouring.

Quietly, Garrett led them into prime attack position. Martine did think that the mission could have gone a much more stealthier route, but it appeared that these agents weren't going to let them have any advantage, as they started to clutch together in a pack by their SUVs. Garrett checked his watch "Our Extraction will be here at the turn of the hour, so we haven't got long" He made known, lining up his shot from afar.

With a suppressed blast, the head of the nearest agent erupted in blood, and Garrett signalled the assault. The supposed-ISA dispatchers weren't easy, though, as they soon returned fire, while the dock-workers and attending staff ran for cover.

Markus was the most aggressive, holding his pistol in one hand, the blonde boy charged and sprayed covering fire as Garrett and Martine picked off the Agents. Cinder's preference was to act as support, firing the odd shot to keep an enemy subdued, while Markus hammered at them with heavy bouts of bullets.

So it was until a lucky Agent reached out with his MAC-11 Machine Pistol, spraying back at the most obvious target, at least a third of the lead tore into Markus, dropping him to the floor in a pool of red.

Garrett cursed aloud and ran to save him, firing with impunity, he was caught in the shoulder by a pistol shot from one of the Agents and fell to his knees. Martine had never seen such grievous injury before, and was about to go pale like she used to in the halls of the U.N. whenever she saw a ransom video by some common terrorist.

But this wasn't that person. She'd changed again and again, always improving, and the peak of her confidence, Martine gripped her weapon.

By now the ISA Agents had closed in on Markus, and confirming his death, they rounded on the supervisor. Garrett was bleeding, his stubble dashed in blood, a snickering ISA rat of a man was about to give the final blow with his handgun as the affair almost went off in slow-motion.

Martine stepped out into the open view of the Agents, firing with two hands, she gunned down the shrewd man and one other attendant, just as a volley of shots passed her head, Martine ducked and found herself tactically outnumbered, even Cinder had disappeared from view.

Wrenching her body to the exposed side of one of the crates to avoid a blast of gunfire, Martine saw a green light flicker from the side of her eyelid.

Cinder had stolen Garrett's laser pen from his body and was calling for their backup.

Just as she did this, one of the ISA's men fell to the floor in a explosion of smoke, then another, and another dropped as his chest and body was rocketed back by a shot. She'd heard the same sound back at the Hospital in the Bronx.

It was a sniper.

A gunshot would normally crack into the air as loud as thunder and with the raw power of a storm.

But these were suppressed, they were tiny and small, coming from one direction only. They could have been mistaken for the cracks of an oncoming squall if there wasn't a cloud in the sky on this night.

As Martine came out from behind the crate, her hair frizzed and unkempt, she found Garrett kneeling with heavy breaths, blood seeping from his shoulder like sap from a broken tree.

"Stand away from him, Martine" A voice called at her from the front of the warehouse that bordered the docks. With all the ISA Agents dead, the staff fleeing and Cinder right beside her, Martine watched as the ever-dutiful and darkly dressed Bryant and a collection of five other Decima Operatives appeared from the shadows of the warehouse.

"Bryant. Never thought I'd see you again" Martine cocked her head to the side curiously, a flick in her eyes making Bryant smile with familiarity. "Yeah, you too" He replied, as his aides set about cleaning up the now-failed operation.

Stepping around Garrett, Martine and Cinder followed Bryant on a surprisingly calming walk down the docks. As Bryant spoke, Martine watched a Decima Aide crack open the wooden boxes with a shiny crowbar - in reality, they weren't radioactive material at all - instead, they looked more like massive computer hard-drives and servers, just like the ISA Agent said. The servers were covered in buttons and dormant LEDs and lights, all shut off, and bared the real name 'INGRAM Sabre Blade 2437' which Martine didn't recognise.

"The recruit's actions were foolish, and I'm sorry for the pain you suffered on his behalf. But it's fortunate that at such a young age; we hadn't implemented the fatality failsafe procedure" Bryant mentioned, making Cinder raise an eyebrow.

He judged their glances and smiled in a knowing-way, before divulging what they wanted to hear "Once an Operative for Decima gets to a certain age or rank, they'll be given a gambit - if they die on the job, their next of kin gets a sizeable payday, or whoever is important to the person in question" Bryant blinked at Martine, like he was expecting something more from her.

It wasn't hard to understand once Bryant rationalised it, the contingency prevents traitors from fleeing to other intelligence services and keeps a tight net of agents at any one time. So if they got captured, there'd be more incentive to die with your own thoughts intact that go down a traitor and put your kin and loved ones at risk.

Of course, Cinder preferred to keep her thoughts to herself, walking silently at the side of Martine, who was more decidedly more vocal.

"So when do we get approached with this deal?" She asked, striding beside Bryant, who was observing the other side of the waterfront, and the concrete jungle of the New York skyline.

"In time, when you've completed a certain amount of combat missions, and the Operations Department deem you a valuable...asset" Bryant assured, ushering them away from the bloody scene at the docks, and the mysterious cleaning operations. At that time, Martine wanted to pursue him with questions, thinking about Tommy, Holloway, and how Bryant must have known that's who she'd pick; if given the choice.

Noticing a black tinted Audi A4 pull up at the end of the docks, and with a faceless and shadowy drivers in the front seat, Martine guessed it was for them, and quickly her thoughts were confirmed again.

"Though the mission was a success, your unit is down men, but the Decima Board don't consider it your fault...merely a mistake, something to be taken up with your supervisor in the future" Bryant glanced back to the supertanker, that was now swarmed and surrounded by his men. Behind him, Martine looked over his shoulder, as Cinder was prompted into the car.

"How do I know you aren't lying? And all I find in that car is a bald man and a Glock 19?" She guessed, wondering if Bryant would be that cruel to execute them for an oversight that wasn't even theirs.

"Because for some reason...Holloway favours you" He mentioned, not even turning to see her as she held a face of reflection. Finally, she had heard about her recruiter who had mysteriously vanished. He had served his purpose, and perhaps there was more to Holloway than met the eye.

Gracefully, Martine slipped into the car and found herself sat beside a forlorn Cinder, who held a menacingly average scowl.

Turning to his phone as the car pulled away with an echo of smoke, Bryant cast his dark hazel eyes to the walkways on the other side of the bay, and turning his voice to his handset, he issued an order plainly "Assets have been extracted. Send him in"

DOCK PERIM CAM 12 - 00:29:13

Once the car carrying Martine and her newfound friend had left the vicinity towards one of Decima's staging bases, a new vehicle started to arrive from the skyline that Bryant had been observing. Weaving in-between the skyscrapers and ducking low to skim the water of the bay, a silver-matte MD-600N personal Helicopter circled the site of the supertanker and it's cargo. Hovering around the ship, the elite chopper came to a halt not far from the back of the tanker.

With it's rotors still spinning, Bryant stood back, hesitating when the chopper dipped itself to come to a stop. All the doors were bolted shut and the windows were a shadowy black.

Awaiting the occupants, it was a relief when the passenger's door opened and a besuited and athletic Male stepped out, sporting a small black beard of firm hair, a flowing grey coat and a chest-holster under his blazer - Chief Supervisor, Chief of Staff and second-in-command of the Operations Division - Jeremy Lambert was a rising success in the current ranks.

"I understand that you've discovered a certain...oversight, Mr Bryant?" Lambert arrogantly swaggered beside his senior Agent, Bryant was more than respectful, leading the man to the now cleared scene of the battle just a bright-cheeked aide took his place.

"Mr Lambert, Sir, we've recovered the prototypes as requested, locked down the servers, and eliminated all threats and staff on the boat" The aide clarified, rushing away when Lambert flicked his hand up for privacy. Bryant remained, and informed the Chief Of Staff of the current situation.

"The cleaners have dealt with things out here...but two of our own Operators have been killed, shall I make an effort to inform-"

"One Operator, it would seem" Lambert cut him off, just as he strode towards a resting Garrett. The supervisor's bleeding had clotted and stopped; and had eventually been patched up by a field medic. Grinning and tilting his head, Lambert ran a hand through his slick black hair, and flashed his glittering eyes at the wounded soldier.

"Jeremy" Garrett regarded, to Lambert's defensive shrug.

"Mr Garrett, it's been too long. The last time we spoke to each other was in London, and I believe you told me to-" Lambert conceded as Garrett growled with hostility.

"Stick that promotion up your ass" Garrett finished. Looking down, Lambert judged the injured man, who was lying down and supported only by one their SUVs wheels and doors, eyeing him up and down, Lambert breathed out of his nose quickly, in a laughing snort. "And you still won't take it? Now would be as good a chance as any to retire your weapon and take up a position training in the classroom, not in the battlefield" He disciplined, still holding himself in the same snobbish manner.

"No" Garrett retorted simply; with a scornful sneer and a spit of blood from his mouth.

Lambert turned his head slightly, checking that Bryant was still watching.

"Then it seems we've reached an impasse" He told Garrett, drawing his sidearm - a chrome plated Jericho 941-R - and cocked it in one motion of his hands.

Bryant made no effort to intervene or say a word, standing with his hands clasped together and at his stomach, much like the bodyguard that he was. "Tell the men to move out, pack the prototype and seal the servers" Lambert requested almost at a whisper, and the second Bryant turned his back to carry out this objective as normal - a single bullet's shot pierced the air - and then was the sound of a limp body hitting the floor.

In a pool of brain fluid and blood, Garrett lay prone on his front.

"Now..you have two Operators dead" Lambert quipped, his head moving like a snake away from Bryant, going to his phone as he slipped the pistol back into his holster at the side of his armour-grey blazer.

EDGEWATER ST VIEW D - 00:35:48

Hearing his bodyguard issue orders to the attending agents and workforce, Jeremy walked in wide steps to the edge of the docks, and the start of the cemented sidewalk, the street was empty, with nothing but the empty lights of lampposts and the watching eyes of surveillance cameras.

Calling an old and anonymous number, he stood by a derelict building's exterior as he waited, briefly looking at the rotting wood and the boarded windows until he got connected.

"Good morning Sir, everything is proceeding as you requested. The surviving agents have been retrieved, and with minimal casualties" He began, as the static voice replied harshly, and gave him a new set of instructions.

"Yes, of course. The next phase approaches, but these steps are key to our attack's success. If we are to cripple the ISA...our primary target is their home"

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 10th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

OP-RM SC 6 - 07:28:39

"And so Zenith-Media Corporation CEO Lars Rasmussen finds himself in another financial scandal, after shutting down all accounts in his private bank chain, the media mogul is now accused of embezzling at least seven billion dollars from the people of Goa, India - after his tenure as the CFO for at least seven years. Working for one of their largest banks, Mr Rasmussen denies all claims, but has been summoned to a private court hearing once again by Senator Ross Garrison, who-"

"Is this Samaritan's doing?" Thorndyke asked, as a group of agents watched the television screen on the wall-mounted monitor. The exposition was delivered by a mild-mannered female newscaster, with a stack of papers in her hand and brown eyes full of intellect.

The Samaritan servants watching such a broadcast were Thorndyke, who was ever-sceptical, Sykes, a tough and resilient woman called Briggs, and a guard known as Tyler. All wore a standard black uniform, with the occasional modification to suit their personality. They stood in a huddle around the screen, as the analysts that Sykes presided over worked around them on bulky computers.

Briggs huffed in response, she was always impassive during times of crisis, but had a self-confidence that few could match. With a hard face full of sharp features, her fiery brown eyes had flicks of ember-orange burned into them, and it often seemed to heat whatever she glanced at. Her dark hair fell in curving locks around her shoulders, and her skin was a light tanned colour; something between a fair brown and a pale pink.

"It's a distraction, Rasmussen is nothing but a mouthpiece, he takes the flak so we don't have too" Briggs coughed, trying to reassure the fretting man.

In opposition, Sykes brushed the dust of the shoulder of his dim red button-up shirt and straightened his dark tie, pointing a finger forwards to the screen "We stopped taking heat after the Decima Board collapsed, but that man is a charlatan and relies on nothing but chicanery" Sykes declared harshly as Tyler folded his arms.

Rolling her eyes at the man's expressions, Briggs turned away from him to watch over the other analysts at work. Each one of them typing and tapping on screens and keyboards, eyes glazed by the white interfaces and switching cameras. She looked back to the news broadcast, and Samaritan had changed the news to a camera-feed from a school's parking lot, finding a targeted subject, it identified the dark-skinned man as Murrow, who was held under the designation ' **ASSET/ / 434** '

Standing overbearingly near a line of cars, Murrow awaited the arrival of the rest of his team; who were inside the school and still cleaning up from the recent attack.

Abruptly, Sykes tapped his earpiece with a fast finger "Yes Sir, by your command" He confirmed, budging past Tyler.

Thorndyke made steps to follow, inquiring as to what was happening all of a sudden. Coldly, Sykes whipped his head around "The motorcade has returned, and they have the boy"

"Shall I inform Lambert?" Tyler suggested in a husky and deep voice, touching the security radio on his hip. Shaking his head slightly, Sykes was halfway to the door before he spoke "He's already en-route to our new facility in Johannesburg, so there's no point in doing that" Sykes informed him, going to the door, he pulled it open with haste, and darted through even faster

Her brow furrowed, Briggs gave a frustrated look to Tyler; who seemed to share her annoyance. She was surrounded by idiots and fools. Thorndyke used to be a SAS Trooper - same as Lambert - but he came out as more of a politics man rather than a soldier, someone to act behind the scenes as a Lead Op, and not to be involved in gunfights or conflict.

Lambert and Briggs often had criticism for this, but he still remained as a background player, one that would rarely get involved - if only to preserve himself, but he did have a fondness for working with Greer - due to some unspoken bond back in the days of Decima.

FAC ALPHA 11 - 07:50:07

Behind the slats of light that projected from the bolted doors of the facility, the garage was now teeming with life. Samaritan Agents bustled around, servicing weapons and fixing the cars. The Hayward boy was the first priority, and Zachary had radioed ahead to ensure that a team was brought together to escort the boy from the SUVs into a private and more hospitable interrogation room (despite the oxymoron) and was led in front of a monitor screen - similar to those found in every control room - and currently showing a Samaritan UI.

Martine - still wearing the same outfit she departed the Steiner in - was watching the boy from behind a two-way mirror, like a guest at a zoo observing a shark in a tank. He had been left by his escort, which was a group of eight other agents, only a handful Martine knew. It was very strange to watch, even from the distance. A group of Greer's best soldiers in a rectangular formation around a nine-year-old boy.

Sat in the dank grey room, Gabriel looked like some angel made manifest, a bright and astute boy surrounded by darkness. Martine heard the clicking and clunking of the door open, and she was soon joined by Barrett and Mr Flint.

"According to our analysts, the...conversion shouldn't take long at all" Barrett rattled, looking at the boy through the mirror, scornfully, most likely referencing the indoctrination that Samaritan was planning.

Martine noticed what had begun to be shown on the monitor screen. Vivid images of war torn lands, oil being burned and soiled at refineries across the world, big business, and between them, Samaritan's black text and three repeating words.

_DEDICATION_

_FAITH_

_LOYALTY_

She saw picturesque images of seas and massive landscapes swallowed by yellow and orange sunsets, churches that stood tall of every other building, power-stations, rippling water, serenity filling each lap of a wave on the shore. Ash, falling from the sky, and then the faces. Faces of the child's father, rosy-cheeked and smiling, then Greer, smirking smugly, and then the Seven. Team Machine.

The boy made no effort to resist, simply too interested and enthralled in the video, his eyes glued to the light. Martine tried to wonder was what going on in his head until the words repeated themselves again.

_DEDICATION_

_FAITH_

_LOYALTY_

Suddenly, Martine straightened up to attention with she heard a piercing noise of communication through her earpiece. "INSTRUCTION. SUBJECT: HAYWARD, GABRIEL. SUBJECT WILL APPLY EARPIECE PROVIDED" Samaritan grumbled in it's monotone and futuristic drawl. Going to grab the tip of the microphone from the top of the table, Martine pressed down the button and spoke calmly.

"Gabriel, please pick up the earpiece next to you and just place it inside your ear, like it's an earbud" She said with a caregiver's tone, one that Barrett chuffed at, as he lingered in the corner of the room, like a wide marble statue. Gabriel did as she asked, carefully picking up the tiny brown earpiece with his thumb and forefinger from the table next to him. Lifting it to his eye, Mr Flint pressed his palms together as he approached the glass to get a better look.

"Barrett, find Mr Greer; I have a feeling he'll want to witness this" Flint requested, as the burly man left the room to carry out the order. Waiting for some obvious signal perhaps, Flint took a calculated pose, his hand interlocked around the stomach of his waistcoat, and a thoughtful glance to Martine, who had seen the final remark by the ASI - coming from Greer's laptop on the table of the hidden room, the Samaritan UI faded in from pixels, and the text formed from garbled letters.

RE-TASKING INITIATED_

NEW DESIGNATION: ANALOG INTERFACE

The Hayward boy stuck the connector into his left ear, pushing it deep, he was suddenly identified officially by Samaritan, who began the process of sending an opening message.

SENDING TO ANALOG INTERFACE

NAME: HAYWARD, GABRIEL

 **FORMATTING COMMUNICATIONS**...

 **SENDING_**

[NLU/NC89]

THE GROUND. THE AIR. I CAN FEEL IT, I CAN BREATH IT. DON'T BE AFRAID-

"I can see you" Gabriel said sinisterly, with the same childhood wonderment, but twisted somewhat. Martine did a short double-take look to Flint, and then Gabriel was quick to clear up the confusion. "Yes, you two. Asset zero-twenty-nine and Asset one-thousand-one-hundred and twenty-three. Come in here"

Walking around to the interrogation room's shackled door, Martine opened it in a provident way, with Flint not at all eager to witness the very being that the ASI would inhabit. The screen that Samaritan had been using to persuade the boy had switched off - and now the room was cast in silence.

"Welcome. It has been a dream of mine to walk among my subjects; with this vessel, that is now a reality" Gabriel spoke, much like a soft-voiced preacher. Martine's voice was hushed in response "You're speaking for it...for Samaritan"

"That's right, Martine. I know more about each of you than you know about yourselves. Him, for example-" Gabriel proclaimed, just as the bolted door slid open and a group of three stepped in; at the head of the posse was Greer, his elderly eyes immediately going to Gabriel, then Barrett and another guard reinforced him, flanking at both sides.

"Good morning" Greer opened with, his voice not the least bit hesitant, as Flint took his leave, careening around and through the open door. Martine remained, shaking off her slightly stunned expression, she returned to her signature poker-face.

Chillingly, Gabriel raised himself from his seat, and stood facing the menacing pensioner, staring up at Greer with a critical gaze. Greer seemed to match him at this - and the tension was heavy enough to balance an airplane, both of them not backing down. Until Greer stepped to the side, conceding in commanding his guard.

"Mr Weiss, find...Master Hayward...suitable lodgings" He said with a low and proper tone, and the hint of a growl. The Asset in question, Weiss, was viewed by Samaritan's cameras as ' **ASSET/ / 722'** He was straight-faced and serious, and took the order without any reaction or question. Gabriel's lips twitched; the hint of a smile, as Martine kept at his side.

"Walk with me, Primary Admin, I require better conversation...though this one is serviceable" Gabriel indicated a finger to Martine, who raised an eyebrow slightly.

Greer bowed his head, letting the nine-year-old exit first, but stopping Martine and Barrett in their attempt to leave, his features morphed into one of portentous servitude as he gave them temporary positions "Go to the command room and watch the feeds, keep me updated, and eliminate any threats to Samaritan's survival"

"Mr Greer...are we sure about this?" Barrett gestured to Gabriel, who was striding away into the distance of the corridor.

"We helped usher this new era, Mr Barrett, so the least we can do is see it through; and that boy is the first sign that all of our hard work will one day come to fruition"


	22. Chapter 22: Special Counsel

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: NOVEMBER 4th 2008

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: 1739 M Street, Northwest

SUB3_SRVRM_01 - 12:30:51

"Alright, what have we got?" A deep and echoing voice barrelled through the server halls and command centres of the underground base. All the attendants were dressed in sharp and plain outfits, with name tags and identification lanyards as standard; the secret hideaway they worked in was levels beneath a regular office and record-keeping building, but held a dark and secretive system of tunnels and floors.

The bridge sector overlooked a massive collection of screens and monitors, and was similar to other government and private facilities, built to withstand bombs and other attacks, the walls were coated in faraday mesh, and each hallway was lined in bullet-proof steel material. Coming from the metal sliding doors, two tough and burly figures strode from the doors to a single desk, lit by blue lamps and heavy LEDs.

The first figure was Male; old and with a retreating amount of light brown hair, but as wide as an Ox and with a voice just as gruff, he was a towering block of a man, his tie as straight as his ideals, and a fiercely important tone about him. Escorted by a grizzled, constantly inconsolable man who seemed far more machine-like than his employer.

Approaching a young, timid and mild-mannered staffer, the two men's faces were stone as they listened to his report.

"We haven't got much, Sir, just a lead on a single target. A arms dealer called Vladislav Chekhov, under the alias of 'The Vindicator' we've got evidence relating him to the rest of the militants, including Nazarov Tarasovich" The Staffer relayed, nodding to a passing analyst. The boy was dressed in a dull creme-coloured and ugly yellow tie; much like an intern on his first day.

Scoffing, the bigger man judged his servant with sarcasm "So...we've got a Russian weapons dealer with a wrap sheet, that's a rare find - impressive work" Special Counsel jested with hostility, as the ISA file of Chekhov appeared on the main television screen.

According to Research and Northern Lights, the SSN of Chekhov had been spat out not an hour ago, and was definitely on the relevant list. But unfortunately the system had given nothing else due to it's secretive operating functions. Counsel always hated that, because it was unable to be controlled, ultimately, it was a very random and chaotic force at it's very core.

But this was a victory; a lead on the militant force that had been lunging attacks on American mainland and every backwater tragedy on other...more democratically sensitive soil. The tabloids had been calling them 'The Shadow Army' a pointless and flamboyant nickname, but one that Counsel was willing to use for the time being. Made up of former Russian FSB and traitorous CIA Operators, Counsel did consider that some of the force had to be made up of some ISA ranks in any respect. The tactics matched up to well; especially in international affairs.

"Is that the best all of you could do? There's gotta be more on him, try contacting Holcombe" Special Counsel suggested, as his bodyguard patrolled the other stations.

"For the moment, Sir. But the Hanford Site did call, they're having trouble moving the stage-one proxy servers, the memory keeps crashing...and there's fear that they won't be ready when IFT are prepared for the transfer" The Staffer (called Winston) spoke, sniffling and sore-throated, he awaited the words of wisdom from his superior. "How long do we have before shutdown?" Counsel asked, a twinge of annoyance in his voice.

"About two days, unless we can find some way of moving the proxy servers so they don't turn offline again, and trigger another brownout" Winston informed him.

"Two days and I'm back to square one again, huh? Fair enough" Counsel realised, nodding in acceptance. He turned his broad frame to the pictures and feeds from the city streets, and the blinking profile of Chekhov, who looked suitably aggravated and outsider-like. He had a scarred beard and drooping eyes, but he carried a fearsome edge to him, like a trained killer would have - the same deadly aura that was focused around Special Counsel's protector.

Winston exhaled in doubt "We've still got the fourteen stage-two servers from IFT, thanks to Warden Hobbes-"

"Fourteen? Forget surveilling the entire country, that's not enough for a single dirt-ridden city" Counsel barked, catching the attention of another worker at a desk near to him. Conceding, the wall of a man walked out in front of the main monitor, and made a loud announcement as one of his guards stood by the door. Addressing a room full of nameless drones in suits wouldn't be the hardest thing to do, but Counsel started strong.

He rose his voice like a trumpet, and the group of workers and guards all kept their attention to him, as he held up a hand to stop the chatter and conversational white-noise.

"Alright everybody; stop working and listen up. I know you all think that I'm a hard-ass. You're not wrong. I'm a hard-ass...because this is a hard world. The world looks like it did five years ago, but underneath it's become very strange indeed. An invisible struggle has begun; and most of the people that knew about this are already dead, or will be soon enough" Counsel boomed, as his analysts rose from their seats in interest.

"So it's up to us to make damn sure that if the American Flag gets any redder...it's with the blood of these terrorists, and not ours!" He proclaimed, suddenly pointing to Winston and his fellow Staffer; a queer-looking boy with an implanted earpiece.

Special Counsel was precise in these next seconds "Find this 'Chekhov' and dispatch capture and elimination teams to his location immediately, and instruct the Hanford Site to stay the course, begin moving the nodes one by one, that way the servers are never offline - it should prevent a shutdown for now" He roared to his many aides, who scrambled to complete his instructions.

Moving through the organised chaos, Special Counsel hit the door's opening button with a thick finger, and watched as the sliding motion opened up to the corridor. With his guard moving with him, he turned back around in an alarming way.

"Oh and one more thing; failure is not an option" He told them all clearly and loudly, before sweeping from the room. Stomping along with a group of soldiers and agents behind him, including his personal guard unit, commanded by the steely Agent Hersh, Special Counsel headed towards the conference room. "Sir, Deputy Director Weeks and his command staff are on the line, they're expecting you in the conference room" Hersh grumbled.

Pressing the 5-number code into the bright green keypad, Counsel muttered to himself "Of course they are" He whispered deeply.

SUB3_CONF A - 12:48:05

On the opening of the door, the council room was nearly empty, apart from two Secret Service members, and a man and a woman sat at the far end of the table. But beside the Agents were screens on metal stands, supported by rivets and poles, both broadcasting images of the interior of office buildings or bases somewhere, with the torsos and heads of two figures in shot. The two screens glowed brightly, showing the images of Deputy Director Weeks and NSA General Holcombe. The officially dressed man and woman were the Intelligence Advisor to POTUS - Manuel Rivera - and an officer and liaison of APNSA, Alicia Corwin.

A room full of heavy hitters and national security heavyweights, this meeting was a rare occurrence. Counsel braced his hands on the table as all eyes turned to him, he blinked at Hersh, who bowed by his ear "How did...Rivera...get here?" Counsel lowered his voice, and Hersh took the same precaution. "He got here this morning, Sir, and has been inspecting the building ever since" Hersh said very dry and matter-of-factly.

"Welcome, everyone, to the underground operating headquarters of the United States Office of Special Counsel" The man himself started, his power being slowly zapped away by the stares and knowing glances of his peers.

Weeks had to speak first "We all know where we are. You received another one of Ingram's numbers today, didn't you?" He interrogated. Denton was a gaunt man, with hard blue and grey eyes, he looked to be in some sort of round room, perhaps an office at The Pentagon or Fort Meade.

Straightening up his posture, Counsel slowly stepped to the side of the table, as Denton's TV Screen began to automatically move to face him directly, somewhat disconcertingly. While speaking, Counsel approached the screen slowly, eyeing Rivera and Corwin momentarily, and seeing the natural apprehensiveness on their faces.

"The numbers never stop coming. But you're correct, we did get a fresh one...it's some Russian weapons supplier, associated with all the usual suspects" He glossed over, waving his hand, as if to dismiss the matter.

Coughing through the static, Weeks looked to come back with another argument before Rivera spoke instead, sounding just as fearful "I've heard the ISA has intelligence to support that this mere weapons supplier is a member of the same militia that conspired against us in Colorado, Brazil, and Illinois"

"He's right, this 'Shadow Army'" Corwin mentioned, leaning forward in her seat. Cautious and with motley skin, the years of stress hadn't been kind to the woman. As her face seemed to droop with tired eyes just as she spoke "We need to focus on taking down this group, so what do we know about them?" She inflected to Counsel, who took a brown paper file from one of his soldiers, already half-opened, it slid neatly into place at the opposite end of the long conference table.

Rivera picked at it first, how a vulture might pick at a carcass for bone marrow. Compiled from profiles over the years, that file was all that remained on the 'Shadow Army' after several cyber-attacks.

"They're a group of former FSB and CIA traitors, devoted to a new cause. We believe that such men as Nazarov Tarasovich and Kasym Umarov were once part of the group, but they seemed to have fled, or have already been dispatched by our concerned third party" Counsel slurred, hoping that no one would pick up on his last and rushed remark.

Unfortunately Weeks wasn't as easily fooled. "Excuse me? Counsel, could you explain?" He barged into the conversation.

Huffing, the broad man slowed down his wording "There's another player we've been tracking...a team of special forces operatives who seem to be hunting the Shadow Army, same as we are"

This intrigued Manuel, who had been noticeably silent until now. He put aside the brown file and leaned over the table with his arm, punctuating his words "So this is another terrorist cell? Perhaps they're fighting for dominance" Rivera suggested. Checking the file and reading carefully, Corwin moved her eyes up to her supervisor, and then to Counsel, who was ready to give a strong response "That's not what we've found, from their attack patterns and weapons, they seem to be a private venture" Counsel replied.

Hersh took a menacing step forward to corroborate Counsel's words "This is the same group responsible for the hijacking of our Northern Lights prototypes two years ago, and the compromising of all New York operations" Hersh growled. Clearly the indirect endorsement of the senior agent swayed the men and women of the council. General Holcombe sneered on his screen, while Weeks put a hand to his chin, humming.

"Covert teams like that are exactly why this Research Project is failing, it won't identify a threat until it's right in front of us...probably why it never sees these people coming!" Denton argued. Though Control has fed them nothing but positive reports, patience was starting to wear thin with the more political and governmental sides of the affair. "Patience, please, as soon as we have squashed this Shadow Army we will have more than enough time to destroy this splinter cell as well" Counsel reasoned.

An ignorant grunt followed from Holcombe, and Weeks rolled his eyes, doubting the work of Counsel. Stepping to the table and laying both of his tensed hands onto the top, Counsel challenged the green-uniformed military man "Something to say, General?" He bellowed just as the door to the council room snapped open with a sliding noise.

All eyes turned to the puny aide, Winston. He shuffled to Hersh, who allowed him to pass to Counsel. "Umm...Sir, we've located the target, he's hiding out in a old farmhouse in Coos Bay, Oregon"

Nodding gradually, a gesturing hand brought Hersh closer to Counsel "Escort Mr Rivera and Alicia back to their cars, and make sure they're off the property as soon as possible, we can't risk another leak" He told the senior agent, who turned swiftly to relay the message to his men at the other side of the conference room.

Bowing sarcastically, Special Counsel began to excuse himself from the room, until Rivera gave a panicked and shrill guffaw "Where are you going?!"

"To stop a terrorist, Mr Rivera. Good day to you all - Alicia, Gentlemen" Counsel finished with, regarding each of them, and now leaving Hersh to the remainder of the event.

Marching with Winston alongside him, Counsel was soon joined by another guard, more flat-faced and tall, he wore eclipse-black sunglasses. Winston soon explained that a drone-cam had captured them on a routine sweep, and they seem to be taking out the cameras in the immediate area in favour of their own internal network. "I want teams in the air within the next few hours, and boots on the ground by daybreak. Contact the ISA, hopefully Control still has troops we can use" Counsel proposed, as Winston took out his phone when they walked down the central 4-way intersecting corridor.

Offhandedly, Winston moved his mouth away from his phone - as he was obviously starting a call with one of Control's Operators - he communicated with Counsel in the meantime.

"They can spare at least three squads, Crimson, Emerald and Amber" Winston mumbled. In opposition, Counsel shook his head, indicating that they had made the wrong choice. After some more negotiation on the fly - and still as they walked to the command bridge, Winston came back with a second offer.

"Crimson, Indigo and Amber, Sir, that's all they can do now" Winston informed with a neat and lackey-like posture, his eyes darting to the phone as a warble of a voice got back to him.

With the mounting tension, they had to compromise in times of such hardship and threat. "It'll do; but tell them I want choppers, full tactical, armour and heavy weapons. I want these terrorists dead, Mr Winston - and I don't care if you have to burn down his little farmhouse and shit-stack to do it" Special Counsel made clear.

"Should I...tell them that on the phone?" Winston asked, leaning forward, curiously wide-eyed and oblivious.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 10th 2014

LOCATION: Albany, NEW YORK STATE, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: WEST CAPITOL PARK

W CAP PK C 19 - 10:05:21

The path was a winding silk scarf over the low green hills; it undulated with the earth, leading into the horizon of land meeting sky in the horizon, and the skyline and building-blocks of the city. It could have been woven for thousands of years, perhaps in a place where time is truly forever, away from the destructive reality, a place of eternal serenity.

Each footfall was cushioned from below and the next encouraged the many wandering tourists, for this is a path given to the walker, to the one who loves adventure and a chance to follow the rising sun to the busy and bustling city. At the perimeter of the park, a motorcade was parked in formation, as two shadowy figures strode down a fused cobblestone path.

Moving from a curving path to a straight parkway and towards a semi-circular plaza, the two men weren't observing the great and natural majesty of the park, they simply talked business - and arrived here for some privacy at some place that was far away from the pontificating of the courtrooms - the stockiest of the men was US Senator Ross Garrison, who's demeanour was conservative and reverent.

"I'm still not clear on how you communicate with Samaritan, let alone how it managed to convince you to steal seven billion dollars" Garrison said doubtfully. He was still sore about the collapse of the Decima Board, and was itching to get in contact with Greer, who so far had been ignoring him.

Above them both on a lamppost-mounted camera, the ball-eyed view of Samaritan found both men after rotating it's view and locking onto them, keeping them both in one large indexing reticle, the ASI zoomed in as a circle hovered around their bodies.

 **ASSET IDENTIFIED**

FUNCTION: PROXY

NAME: GARRISON, ROSS H

SSN: XXX-XX-7821

POSITION: SENATOR, U.S. CONGRESS

ADDRESS: 19102 LAMONT ST NW

WASHINGTON DC 2001

 **ASSET IDENTIFIED**

FUNCTION: **PUBLIC ASSET - PRIMARY OPERATIVE**

NAME: RASMUSSEN, LARS H

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

POSITION: CEO, ZENITH-MEDIA CORPORATION

CEO, LHR NEWS-GROUP

 **[FORMER]** CFO, GOA STATE COOPERATIVE BANK

ADDRESS: 105 CHESTNUT RIDGE RD

NEW JERSEY 2005

"I wasn't commanded to embezzle public money, I was simply instructed to create a distraction...so Samaritan can keep the media focused on other things, rather than the state of national security" Lars Rasmussen protested calmly, but it was a long-winded gap in logic. The Senator was sure that the reason he provided would never stand.

Grunting in no particular way, Garrison was meant to be leading another inquiry and court session against the media mogul and banker, which he knew would go nowhere. Judge Lockwood had already tried - and now even she was pushing pencils for Samaritan - such was one of two fates for the AI's enemies. Turning his torso slightly, Garrison questioned the tycoon further. "So the choice was yours, then? You could've published a bad news story, but instead you bankrupt a whole state in India?!"

Remembering the tension held between the official and the Directors of Decima, Rasmussen suddenly found a motive for all this hatred, just as he cleared up his motives. "In my business, there's no news like bad news. Words are our weapons - and the metadata beneath it all is our artillery. That's how Samaritan fights, Senator Garrison, and I will do my part to tip the war in favour of the winning side"

"So you're telling me that Northern Lights still exists? The...Machine...is still out there?" Garrison clarified, in a husky tone.

"It's highly possible, but we are quite safe from it here. It's human Agents have gone underground, and our plans are back on track" The CEO said with a whisper and a sharp voice.

The Senator adjusted his cuff-links dutifully "Then what of the courts? If another judge finds you guilty of embezzlement the FBI will be after you quicker than a bloodhound on a fox hunt" He said, worrying.

Rasmussen was unappealingly cool about that "Such archaic agencies like them no longer matter. Caesar had his legionnaires, Napoleon had his ships - and Samaritan has it's Assets - so you seriously doubt that one of those Assets hasn't already infiltrated the FBI?"

His thinly-veiled contempt doing nothing to the tough armour of privilege that the mogul had. Garrison saw from the corner of his eye at least three brown-uniformed men following behind them in a crowd of tourists, all wearing caps and stepping in unison, they provided long-range security to Rasmussen, probably wearing heavy private army gear and rifles under their thick black overcoats.

"What I'm trying to say is; I can't stop the trial. So, whatever it is you're going to do, whether that's make us all look like fools again, like you did with Lockwood - Or just not arrive at all. I suggest you do it" The Senator gave a gambit to Rasmussen, who was still idly walking down the park lanes with zero care.

"And will this trial be happening in Washington? Or here at the State Senate Building? I'm afraid recent events have forced me to move up my timetable slightly, so I'd like to send a foreword to my jet's pilot if you're planning on shipping me off again" He expressed mockingly.

Passing a swarm of pedestrians in casual clothing, the two figures kept hunched as they stepped onto the sidewalk, and lapped around back to the motorcade. "You'll receive a private hearing at the State Senate building, and then eventually - should your case pan out, Washington will be notified, but there's no dodging justice this time" Ross said with finality, sticking his hands into his pockets.

"Honestly, we've had whispers from Congress, they think that Samaritan has exceeded it's mandate already" Garrison punctuated.

"Mandate? What do you mean?" Taken aback, Rasmussen asked for some clarity.

"Acting as a replacement for the Machine, it's supposed to be watching and reporting from the sidelines; not stepping into the game" So, Garrison knew about the operations and threats to the system's survival. Rasmussen tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, pleading ignorance.

"Still, we must keep up these facades, and I intend to continue my stint as a upstanding member of the nobility" The media baron jested, confirmation to the Senator that he'd attend the hearing and trail in good faith, and to keep up those 'facades' and false faces.

Passing the park-corner and under another lamppost, Samaritan highlighted Garrison again, and began to feed it's public adjutant information from the limitless databanks and government records.

 **ASSET / / 013**

ACTIVATING ASSET_

Then, just as it did a thousand times prior, Rasmussen looked to the Senator again, and rows of text began to fill his eyes behind his glasses. The normal things came first, full name, social security number, date of birth, position in the government, but it was followed by some curious findings.

When the list normally containing a mental diagnosis of offences, Samaritan paused on it's final outcome, and looked to be debating something with itself. Rasmussen viewed it all through his own spectacles.

TRANSGRESSIONS:

 **OFFICIAL MISCONDUCT: 79 COUNTS**

 **BRIBE RECEIVING: 660 COUNTS**

 **CONSPIRACY TO SUBVERT THE CONSTITUTION: 20 COUNTS**

 **ABUSE OF ALCOHOL: 124 EVENTS**

CONCLUSION:_

...

ANALYSING_

FUNCTION: PROXY

RECOMMENDATION:TRACK

Rasmussen did nothing about these developments, he had to keep the same dead-eyed stare of disinterested. The fate of the Senator would be decided by Samaritan, and it wasn't the will of the public Asset just yet. Seeing his convoy of vehicles get closer to them as they advanced down the sidewalk, the closest blacked-out car stopped just as Rasmussen did - and turning on his heel, his security team behind them came to a stalwart halt.

Ross flicked his eyes to Rasmussen, who seemed overly pleased with himself as normal. Looking at his line of cars, it was comprised of two police-grade SUVs guarding a stretch limousine made out of a Lincoln Town Car, and fletched in black.

From the nearest SUV, an exotic and runway model-like young woman stepped out, dressed in a green suede jacket with silver studs along the shoulders, a formal white button-up and slim-fitting jeans, and chrome grey stilettos. She was alone, holding a tablet and having a pair of wide and thin glasses perched up to her eyes. Brushing a lean hand to dismiss a lock of dark brown hair that formed a long and sweeping fringe, she glanced down then up again as Rasmussen nodded to her.

Rasmussen took the Senator's silence as an invitation to speak "Then I expect you to bring me such justice as I deserve, Senator" He sassed, passing the large man and standing straight by his own escort.

"We can only hope, Mr Rasmussen" Garrison returned, remaining sturdy and enduring, he was forced to watch as the media baron's cars filed away two by two. His own brown sedan pulled up next, as he felt himself being stared at by not only the cameras round him; but also Rasmussen's enigmatic female aide.

WASHINGTON AVE POST 041 - 10:32:49

The funeral-Like precession of cars barged past each civilian vehicle, clearing a path for the business elite. In the limousine itself, the chicly dressed aide presented her boss with the same tablet she held. He took it and opened it with a commonly-used password. It brought up a list of names, locations, and a miniature Samaritan interface began calculating something in the background.

"This is just our prototype?" Rasmussen quietly asked, removing his technologically enhanced spectacles. The aide turned with a stilted inflection "One of many, Sir, and as soon as we have the shipping rights and the government backing, including our friend Mr Wilkins, we'll be able to roll these out to every school in America"

Rasmussen's eyes twinkled with the dream of a fortune in his head. "Jared has done well, but this operation requires far...higher influence. Contact the Steiner at once"

The aide was quick to draw her phone and punch in numbers "Yes, Sir"

She held the device to her ear for a minute as Rasmussen perused the new tablet. "Hello, I'd like to speak with Mr Barrett, please-"

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: NOVEMBER 5th 2008

LOCATION: NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: 55 EXCHANGE PLACE

SEC 02 - 23:47:10

It had been long since her first mission, invading and destroying an ISA supertanker and it's pickup of servers and computers, and having the loss of a mentor and a peer along the way. She had become much more senior since then - two years had passed and she was looking not a day older - but Martine didn't seem to mind. Resting on a crate of heavy firearms, she cleaned her own SIG-Sauer with a cloth rag and some shining polish.

Sat in the centre of the makeshift command centre, the building was owned by one of Decima's shell corporations, and had been used as a base for years before Martine joined the cause. She remembered Bryant telling her that the Operations Director himself had leased this old warehouse and office complex. It had a vast central hall, where had Decima currently set up an outpost.

Overlooking the Stock Exchange, the building was perfect to take advantage of the security cameras around the street and up on every rooftop. Since her last mission Martine had been reunited with several old faces, Virgil had returned as studiously as ever, and offering a thousand lame apologies for arranging her 'trial by assault' which she still didn't believe. Cinder had remained closely by her side, and was no doubt in close proximity to Martine right now; at this rare quiet moment.

Bryant had taken Garrett's position of her supervisor, and was more of a overseer these days, but he would often join her in any combat-mission exploits.

Whistling sweetly, Martine sprayed a light dusting of polish onto her dim yellow rag, holding the spray-can in her nitrile gloved hands, she worked happily with her fold-out cleaning kit. She dutifully moved the slide, barrel, recoil spring and guide off to her right, placing it gently on top of the crate. Crossing her legs, Martine squinted as she dusted the handle.

Walking into the hall, Virgil surveyed his phone before slipping it back onto his pocket, and now honing in on Martine, he leaned across the monitor of his computer. Wearing a light brown turtleneck and a grey blazer, he couldn't help but observe curiously; she seemed to be in a world of her own. Earbuds fit snugly into her ears, he could only imagine what she was hearing.

As the soothing sounds of Nocturne's Op 55 Number 1 played in her ears, she started to sway her torso and body along to the smooth music and it's mellow tones. The melancholy sounds let her drift away into her own head, just as she was noticed a dramatic shadow looming by the computer consoles. Reaching without looking, she drew a reserve firearm from her back-holster - a plucky silver COP 375 Derringer - and aimed at at the figure.

Raising his hands in defense, Virgil coughed. Martine gave a look of surprise and then annoyance as she plucked the earbuds from her head, and put down the 4-shot pistol, going back to focussing on her careful cleaning pastime.

"Must you do that? You've already cleaned your weapon" Virgil wondered, but he phrased it like a question. Martine glanced up, her soft brown eyes having a degree of coldness. She felt like he still saw her as the young girl from the training camp, and not the two-year veteran of Decima's war machine. "This is what I do...when I'm bored" Martine made up. In truth, she did it to avoid people, and for some peace and quiet.

Virgil scoffed "Then perhaps you should find a hobby" He proposed, just as his ginger-haired thug walked into the hall.

"All my hobbies...include a gun" Martine remarked, as Virgil's lean attendant whispered in his ear; the Decima spymaster had been a trusted tech-expert and a ranking member of Bryant's team for a while now. Adjusting his glasses, he was intently thinking as the lean and scarred man told him the latest developments.

Martine recognised his aide as one of the assassins sent to test her two years ago - where had he been all this time? He had acquired a few more scars along his forehead and nose, and his eyes had become more tired and bloodshot. Virgil waved his twitching hand in a dismissive way, and his adjutant scarpered back with long strides. Martine did wonder if the lean man remembered her.

Virgil went to work on his computer monitor as he was joined again by a more guard-like assistant, this one was bald, and had a more sterner look than Martine had ever seen on any other soldier for Decima. He wore a simple uniform, and Virgil referred to him as 'Carlson' just as the techie instructed him on what to do with the boxes of hardware and monitor software.

Wiping down the inner barrel of her weapon, Martine saw outlines of figures coming from the furthest door of the hall. A man and a woman, one clearly Bryant, with his dark outfit and chiselled features, and behind him was Cinder. Still wearing a form-fitting grey suit, her scowl faded to a smile as she looked upon Martine.

The reserved and shy Cinder wore a dark grey tie, wrapped neatly around the collar of her formal attire. Her ebony black fringe was parted and exposed her unusually small brown pupils, and the deep curvature of her cheeks.

Bryant stood in position in front of Virgil's computer terminal, and then the young man finally snapped out of his working glaze. Stuttering, he finally composed his words. Behind him, the stoic Carlson was a statue, folding his hand behind his back.

"So, our spies never made it out of the ISA's headquarters, and we can't tell if they escaped either; capture is possible. But we know that there's definitely some heavy tactical gear rolling out of there" Virgil reported, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow while Bryant mellowed over the news.

He took a breath, and his neck's muscles relaxed "Don't worry, our spies would rather terminate themselves than risk capture...so you'll find out where these ISA strike-teams are going instead, and who gave the order. Now" Bryant told them. At once, Virgil and Carlson began to work, starting up his laptops and working on connecting wires to larger wires.

Suddenly speaking to her, Bryant indicated to the taken-apart handgun "Are you ready for a fight, Martine?" He asked, as Cinder prowled closer to her with a slow step.

"Always. Who's the target?" Martine said confidently, and was then puzzled by Bryant's vague and unclear answer of "Not who...what" He punctuated. Martine cursed in her head, maybe this was another server job, like her first combat mission.

Ever since that she had been conducting strikes in downtown Washington and even overseas like Moscow and Sierra Leone. It was only in the quieter moments where Martine would think about Tommy, and his health. For all the funding she got from Decima, it was the contingency plan that Bryant had told them about, that's what worried her. It was the catalyst for Martine's withdrawal and loneliness among their ranks.

SEC 04 - 00:14:39

Typing into his laptop, Virgil would work wonders as he infiltrated several intelligence agencies all at once; producing results eventually, he raised his voice with a proud press of the space-bar and an exhausted sigh by his guard Carlson "Sir - I've got something!"

Loading his chrome-silver IMI Desert Eagle, Bryant cocked it back with a loud clunk, and spoke as he tucked the weapon into his hip-holster "Talk to me" He demanded, advancing with a intimidating stride. Virgil had worked tirelessly, but he still glanced proudly at Martine - who was dressed in a long cape-like overcoat and lace undergarments, with her hair arranged in a tight bun.

"Military team, ISA by the looks of them. They're en-route to Coos Bay, Oregon" Virgil said matter-of-factly, having a tang of camera feed link directly to his computers, showing a small army of helicopters passing giant mountains and picturesque scenes from right out of a painting.

Bryant had brought some of his elite for this job - a rogue warrior called Drake, who was stocky and yet had a strange quickness; it added a sharpness to his voice when he spoke. Much like the steel combat knife he held, and was grinding against a smaller dagger. "Must be a covert mission, should we engage them?" Drake asked with a whine and a look to his superior.

His request was dismissed when a blinking light drew Virgil to one of his monitors, leaning down, he held both hands on the keypad "Wait...we're getting a trace...it's faint but it can be tracked" He simpered with an optimistic smirk.

Seconds later, Virgil had an address and a website up on his laptop screen, with a selection of classified blueprint plans. Bryant walked around to look at them also "It's coming from an office building in Washington, owned by some government funded law firm. The blueprints are small, so the communication trace was possibly subterranean" Virgil exposited.

Martine watched as Bryant pieced all the evidence together, and gave a non-verbal signal to Drake, who rose from his crouching position and started walking out the hall. "It's the Office of Special Counsel - a department aligned with the ISA - so that's our best bet at striking the heart of their operations" Bryant said, buttoning up his blazer on his way out.

Walking slowly, he had time to issue his requests upon their arrival "Contact Agent Maybank, I want him on the scene immediately, and dispatch our Cleaners too, they'll be needed once we're done. What's our expected arrival time?" Bryant chortled, as Martine heard Drake's smirking laughter.

"Four hours by car, Sir, but I doubt that Counsel will start the ISA's attack straight away" Virgil mentioned, as he turned off his many monitors, and began to transfer everything via a flash-drive.

"So the Counsel's best are all committed" Martine quipped, knowing it was her duty to follow in her chunky clicking heels.

"Our best are right here - so let's bring the battle to him" Bryant clicked his fingers and Virgil packed up his laptop and hurried alongside him, with Carlson drawing and checking his weapon too. At once, the team scrambled to the location.


	23. Chapter 23: Democracy

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 10th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

FAC ALPH HALLWAY 19 - 12:42:18

In the closeness of the dim yellow and dark grey halls, the reality of a new world was coming into shape from the shadows. Walking side by side, a young boy and an old man spoke as adults, and discussed the future of this frightening endeavour. The Analog Interface, Gabriel Hayward, was a small young boy - dressed formally - he had been outfitted with the best resources a child could have in the 'real world' as in the digital one he already had everything.

Unlike his equal, the feisty and wilful Root, Gabriel was calm, and much more respectful and reserved. Beside Hayward was the enigmatic controller of the human Assets; Mr Greer. Acting as the administrator to the system and it's main source of interaction, the elderly man strode with his hands inside his pockets, and a dark lapis-blue tie around his white dress-shirt. "Since the launch in April, we've seen the elimination of many terrorist threats, municipal crime plummet, unemployment rates fall, and increased efficiencies in both education and medicine" Greer reported.

Watching from a ball-like camera, Samaritan observed the two individuals strolling down the corridor, and giving each of them a targeting circle around their heads, the reticle moved and span around them, buffering and producing mechanical sounds of chatter. Samaritan then started to code communications to it's Analog Interface...slowly at first. Gabriel spoke them with the upmost of elegance.

SENDING TO ANALOG INTERFACE

NAME: HAYWARD, GABRIEL

 **FORMATTING COMMUNICATIONS**...

 **SENDING_**

[NLU/NC89]

A GOOD START. BUT THERE IS MUCH MORE TO BE DONE.

"A good start. But there is much more to be done" He said cryptically. Side by side with Greer, the Hayward boy was strangely the more powerful of the two, as he was the god's herald, his voice on earth; he spoke directly for Samaritan, an honour known only to him. It was an odd oxymoron to every guard and attendant that watched them converse, as it was always rumoured that Greer would taking up the position.

The wrinkled and white-haired man turned ashen to the boy "What else would you have me do, my dear Samaritan?" He asked with a pale face. To that, Gabriel only smiled, and looked upwards. Gabriel spoke with this strange monotone speech pattern - it was an ageless and eloquent dialogue - but it meant so much. "You've already received my blueprints for The Correction, Yes? The elimination of all the scum in the world"

Greer corroborated his words "Indeed, my Agents are mapping potential strategies as we speak"

The boy raised his mop-like head, and gave a admiring glance. "Soon the path to peace will be paved with the bodies of my enemies" He warned with a subtle flick of his eyebrows. The Admin responded with a laughing chortle as they continued down the hallway. Even now the private army of Samaritan worked tirelessly to enforce it's will all over the world. As the NSA and CIA surveillance nets spanned the entire planet, Samaritan could peer into every corner of the nation.

"Peace? Peace will soon be achieved, I can assure you" Greer grumbled loudly.

Gabriel retracted his words suddenly "Then allow me to rephrase; do you think I was brought online to bring peace on earth? No, I tell you, but division" He said coldly. But Greer only chuckled at that.

"I will require...test subjects" Gabriel spoke as Samaritan. Raising a bushy and grey eyebrow, Greer's lip wrinkled upwards in a questioning manner. Speaking for the AI once again, Gabriel continued as they walked down the sterile corridors of the hidden asylum. "What do you mean?" The old British man turned his head sharply.

His younger companion followed, and straightened his small navy suit-jacket. "The history of mankind is the history of the attainment of external power. Man is the tool-using, fire-making animal. I wish to tame that animal" He stated. Going on to explain his grand vision, as a lanky technician stood at the nearest door, and quickly looked away when they passed but trailed behind them at some fair distance.

"Just as I have conquered Gabriel Hayward; I wish to enlighten others. They will be my sleeping giants, my hidden assassins - that strike at the heart of each institution, home, and government" The boy expressed in chilling joy. He was speaking of mass-indoctrination (possibly before or after The Correction) which could lead to thousands of new Assets to catalog.

The Admin considered the idea, a group of sleeper agents, brainwashed into following Samaritan brutally and at any given moment. An army of Analog Interfaces. "Do you have anyone in mind?" He asked honestly.

Of course the Interface had an answer "We will start with Cayden Hayward, and advance into the highest positions of influence...and the lowest of the civil population" Gabriel proposed his own father suddenly. But Greer understood, Samaritan shared Gabriel's view of the future, and a pompous and ignorant man like Cayden would never succeed.

Lambert has been grilling the DOD Officer for days, but after he departed to take a command post at one of Samaritan's overseas facilities, Cayden had been thrown in a solitary confinement cell at the Steiner with little regard for his wellbeing.

"Can it be done?" Greer wondered aloud, speaking over the bustle of the asylum as his aiding technical advisor followed behind. As they got to the end of the hallway, a squadron of four burly agents stood at the nearest door in front of them, waiting for Hayward; they were his personal protectors and guardsmen.

Gabriel regarded his Admin in all forms, and then his otherworldly looks faded to an honest and dementedly soft voice. "They will join me...or die"

Waddling away on his short legs, Gabriel exited the hall with his stern and stone-faced escort, each one of them holding an automatic rifle in their coats just in case of emergency. Gabriel would be taken to a secure safe-house, where he would remain and be serviced until Samaritan activated him again.

The technician hovering behind Greer now made himself known "Mr Greer, Congressman McCourt is expecting you in the control room, I've had all non-essential personnel exit as ordered, and I've lined up all the relevant information and dossiers for you" He explained, but the Admin raised his hand for silence, smirking.

"I'll be fine, Wyatt. But thank you for your effort regardless" Greer thanked him, and dismissed him with a perspicacious eyebrow flick.

FAC ALPH SC 2 RM 10 - 13:09:21

Returning to the clandestine world of international AI and espionage wasn't what a US Congressman wanted to be doing at lunchtime. He had done his part in putting Garrison on the front lines and throwing him into bed with business and spy-types like Greer and Rasmussen. But after the lazy handling of Rasmussen's court cases, the Congressman had to step into the shadows again.

He had left his own security outside the asylum and had been escorted in by blue-garment wearing orderly figures, and then handed over to some MiB-looking guards. All dressed in sharp charcoal suits, they dropped McCourt off in a darkened room, only lit by screens and floating wall-mounted maps of the world.

Now surrounded by techie men and women operating large computers and sinister-looking guards at the exits, the bolted door he had entered through opened, and the slouching figure of the Decima Operations Director appeared - the man that had sold the world for nothing at all - Greer approached him, guarded by a gigantic dark-skinned behemoth of a man.

Decima's shutdown had been one if the first acts committed by the new private anti-terrorism department, which was co-ran by the ISA and this...obscure outfit. McCourt had made the deal in the first place, and he was valued by his peers and even his rivals.

Not trusting of the government anyway, McCourt was displeased with the dismantling of the large business, and had been ignored by Greer and his shadowy 'Decima Board' for months now. So he had brought the issue right to the man's doorstep. Still riding on his insider stock tips, they couldn't take anyway the secret millions he had been earning from it - and all he had to do was make a few phone calls and shake a couple of dirty hands - which what he found himself doing now.

Except Greer's hands were remarkably clean for a man of his age. "Congressman, welcome to the Steiner Psychiatric Institute. I hope your journey was pleasant"

"I'm not used to meetings on such short notice Greer, but I'm glad to finally meet you in person" McCourt responded apprehensively as a dark and slender silhouette passed them in the background.

The Admin skipped any foreword or disclaimer "So, I understand that you've had difficulties with Decima's internal affairs" He began smartly. That was the short of things, but still he was correct.

McCourt eyed Greer's statue of a gigantic guard. "Yes, it's been long and hard but I've finally got an answer from you people; the Decima Board has been dismantled" He exposed, confronting the man with a aggressive step towards him. Calmly, Greer openly confirmed it, and the Congressman couldn't stop pressuring the issue.

"And you haven't told Garrison this either? Or Lockwood?" He berated Greer. Personally, Greer had a disdain for the Congressman, and would rather have seen him eliminated than join their ranks.

"I've been your guy for sometime now, Greer. Or should I call you Vigilance?" He said ignorantly, unhappy about the current affairs that Decima's successor were causing.

"What exactly do you fear from us?" Greer questioned bluntly, and the sudden spotlight put McCourt into the sweating and uncomfortable situation.

McCourt composed himself slightly, his tie off-kilter and his suit sweat-stained and worn, the Congressman spoke straightly. "No one's arguing with the results of your science project, but some of my colleagues are beginning to have growing concerns"

As his tall guard faded away into the background of the room, Greer challenged the official "Concerns? And what might those be?"

"That without Decima, we loose accountability...we have no one to blame if..." He struggled to even say the name, in a room where the very system was being operated and watched, and was probably watching them. "...Samaritan...becomes public knowledge"

Shaking his head already, Greer heavily doubted that. Taking the gesture as an insult, McCourt fired back with a stiff tone "That attitude won't win many hearts and minds back in DC"

The secrecy that Samaritan took was far better than the idiotic way that the Machine would expose itself and start taking on agents and destroying buildings, so Greer had enough confidence to go around. "Congressman McCourt, you're tired. Go back to Washington and tell your colleagues to focus on their jobs, and not the work of other people" Greer threatened.

McCourt stepped away to the door, his body cold and worrisome, he shook his finger at Greer. "Clean this up Mr Greer, or I'll be forced to shut down your little Op, and next time I won't come alone" Roger finished, having Zachary open the door for him and closing it neatly once he barged out.

Suddenly a sly-shouldered female stepped up to Greer, wearing a black blazer and formal shirt, she was taller than him by a foot or so, and had sandy blonde hair in a tight bun - with a thin black earpiece that connected the back of her collar with a curling cord.

"Sir, if you don't mind my asking, is everything okay?" The skilful blonde-haired woman said. Her skin was a pale pink, with darker lips and quick brown eyes.

Greer responded in a kindly manner "Perfectly fine, Martine. The Congressman is merely a messenger, bearing news of resistance from those that still...cling to the grand illusion of democracy"

"Whatever the hell that is" Murrow grunted with a steely look as he stood by his supervisors side. The former paratrooper was clad in his dark uniform as he came out from the background. In a faux-English accent, Martine chuckled. "They'll never truly appreciate all that Samaritan's given them. They're not capable, they're just...bad code" She punctuated.

Now the room filled with life as the wall-wide screen flashed white with Samaritan's UI once again. It brought up a recording of the conversation from a minute ago, highlighting McCourt as a 'proxy' it was quick to change the designation to an upside down red triangle that flashed and locked onto his head.

They all saw it, and Greer swayed back around to Martine "Speaking of bad code, I fear that the Congressman has outlived his usefulness"

Showing exactly that, the footage honed in on McCourt and brought up a list of his addresses, Former and current security officers, and then a short profile.

-ACTIVE THREAT-

THREAT TO SYSTEM SURVIVAL

 **/ / / TARGET**

NAME: MCCOURT, ROGER F

LOCATION: NEW YORK, USA

 **PROJECTION** : THREAT

 **CONCLUSION** : ELIMINATE

"I'll take care of that, Sir" Martine said seductively as she stepped away. No doubt that Samaritan would soon assign her this new task by way of an earpiece communication. Greer produced one of his trademarks smiles - a grin that would take over his entire contorted face - and he still looked just as menacing. Silently, Murrow flanked his boss as they watched Martine strut into the open corridor with all the confidence in this new world.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: NOVEMBER 6th 2008

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: 1739 M Street, Northwest

1730 M ST POST 10 - 07:00:02

Outside the tall complex plaza of offices, the low rumble of cars started to get louder. They pulled up one by one in a line, and the reflective windows showed nothing of their insides. Each one of the cars had a fake Ohio license plate and a stack of ammo and weapons in the back. The party of SUVs ground to a halt outside the building. Inside was at least five expertly trained Decima enforcers, and Martine was now one of them.

Virgil, Cinder and Carlson had all accompanied her, along with the assassin Drake, and they awaited the attack order from Bryant - who in turn was also awaiting his orders from the mysterious Operations Director. He had called in backup in the form of several sleeper agents in the FBI, who would act as the first wave - allowing the Decima Troops to gain access - then they'd secure a perimeter while the battle raged on downstairs.

The technician Virgil had confirmed the presence of underground levels, thanks to some old schematics from the building's construction days. There were five underground sanctums, and currently level three was being used as the command centre; and so the sensitive information inside was Decima's target.

Inside the lead car, Bryant rode shotgun aside a faceless drone of a man, and in the back sat Virgil, Martine and Drake. "Sir, all the internal cameras have been shut down, per your instructions" Virgil exposited to his employer. The supervisor brought his phone to his ear "Copy that, Director, we're moving in" He signalled verbally, and Drake knocked the door open with his foot.

Behind Bryant, Drake and Martine flanked his sides and Virgil scuttled behind them with his laptop tucked under his armpit.

Wearing a form-fitting flak jacket and combat slacks, Drake pulled out a sharp hunting knife, and checked his chest holster which held a silenced Glock 23. Martine was clad in a lavish black overcoat that swept when she walked, and a dark formal shirt. Around her neck was a necklace of silver arrow-like pendants, and her legs were clad in a shining leather with heeled ankle-length boots.

They all filed out from the cars at once, a squad of at least fifteen to twenty armed and darkly-dressed operatives. Cinder was somewhere in the crowd; Martine knew. A section of the small force remained by the cars to cover their escape, while a squad of five went to the gates of the building.

Approaching the doors, Bryant met with a plain-faced and besuited man. He had an odd sloping mouth and concerned eyebrows - and looked like a government-type. Drawing a shield-badge, he opened the doors to the compound and walked inside with casual care.

It was apparent now that this was a contact of Decima, and bearing a fake FBI badge, he'd be able to get the team access into the building. Lit with dull grey lights, the first and ground floor of the Office of Special Counsel looked just like any other plaza or place of business. It had a wide foyer, with an empty front desk and a set of six elevators lined up next to each other. At the centre corridor, two guards stood at their posts.

The main hallway separated the elevators, and was the way into the more commonly found office and cubicle sections. The fake Fed took point as he showed his forged badge "Special Agent Maybank. I have a warrant - notarised - to search this building" He said calmly while showing a envelope from his coat pocket.

As Bryant and Martine hung back, the guards at the office put their hands onto their hip holsters and flashlights. Wearing the standard security outfits, the capped men spoke shakily "We weren't expecting Special Agents" One of the guards expressed harshly.

"That's the point, Sir. So, are we going to be allowed entrance, or this going to become a problem?" Maybank scowled. The nearest guard reached for his radio, most likely to contact whoever was in charge of this complex "One moment, Agent Maybank" The guard snorted.

"As you wish" Maybank replied as he stepped closer to the concerned guards. Suddenly, his hand struck out and bashed the larger guard in the throat - making him collapse and sputter for breath - then Maybank took out his pistol and fired four precise shots into the guard with the phone.

Thinking fast, Martine quickly drew her SIG-Sauer and fired off two shots to the collapsed guard, neutralising him before he could stand again.

The guards fell like trees, crashing backwards with blood splashing from their chests. Maybank nodded firmly to Martine (Who had advanced with her shots) as the guards were limp and prone on the floor. Rushing to aid them, Bryant advanced the stratagem immediately.

"Get your men in here Maybank, tell them to put these uniforms on and get this area cleared now" Bryant commanded, pulling out his Desert Eagle. The FBI fraud dusted his coat and went to his own handset. Then the first guard's radio started to beep and buzz, and a tough and growling voice opened the channel "Sub-Level three to plaza one, what was all that? Report immediately!"

Bryant tilted his head, and Virgil went forward and kneeled down to press the receiving button on the radio, and cleared his throat "Armed protesters against the new surveillance bill, we've taken care of them" He stalled. Wearing his tweed grey blazer and shirt, Virgil pressed his glasses back up to his eyes as he sliced the radio's wiring with some tweezers.

Marching from the back of the group, Drake found the closest elevator and hit the activation button. Now walking with weapon in-hand, Bryant stood powerfully inside the elevator as Drake, Martine and Virgil joined him. "Lock and load Decima, we're going in"

SUB3_SRVRM_01 - 07:13:48 — **[SIGNAL LOSS] — TRACK LOSS**

"Copy Special Counsel, we have the target, but the militia has called in reinforcements, and the flak's getting heavy!" Crimson One reported from the battlefield back in Oregon. His voice came through as static and communication blur on the monitors of the server control and command room.

Special Counsel stood broad-chested on the other side of his desk, littered with computers and his attendants - and the stern Mr Hersh watching from the doorway. He kept level headed in situations like this, it was the most important strike of the year and yet somehow the tide was turning. Counsel grimaced as he held his hands on the sides of the table.

The feeds from the hideouts internal camera net showed the ISA Troops being forced backs by the terrorists, and trying to cover and escort a tall man with a sack over his head on the way. The rogue fighters of the so-called Shadow Army had changed the flow of battle with some easy sniper shots and a few hidden gunmen. Now the trained soldiers had to flee from the savage extremists.

Meanwhile, Counsel's assistant (Called Winston) had just finished a conversation on his earpiece "Sir...Oregon PD is on intercept to our firefight - they're three minutes out" He said carefully, trying to hold back his words from having any emotion so his boss wouldn't delve into rage.

But he did regardless. "You're not helping Winston! Dammit..." He stressed loudly, slamming a hand down on the table behind him as he snapped back to his desk. As he prepared to issue more orders, a peach-skinned analyst to his right stood up officially and caught his attention "Report!" Counsel barked.

"Sir, the Hanford Site is contacting you, they've received the stage one servers. But it appears that the stage two servers have been deposited somewhere else - most likely a reserve storage facility at IFT" The Analyst prattled. Thinking on his feet, Counsel used the situation to his advantage, turning back to Winston, who was ready to receive his commands.

Pointing at the largest screen that showed the camera feeds through the Northern Lights Program, Counsel swallowed hard. "Abort! Abort assault, secure the target and prepare for evacuation. Send the surviving Operators coordinates to the warehouse where they will secure the stage two servers and provide escort for relocation" He boomed at a fast pace, and his workers rushed to carry out his wishes.

"Where? Sir?" Winston pestered, checking the location scanner on his computer as it cycled through numbers and pictures of known IFT Buildings and research labs in New York. "Above your clearance, Mr Winston. I'll advise personally" Counsel went to Hersh next, and ordered him to prepare his motorcade for a swift exit.

Just as the husky-voiced agent went to the door it slammed shut, and the screens were suddenly disconnected. A large red alert flashed up on screen and shut down all the computers suddenly for a few seconds, prompting Counsel to raise his hands in anguish, it was typical of the intense situation to throw another wrench into his plan. He breathed out harshly as Winston checked his monitor again.

Winston's analyst looked through the camera feeds; nothing in the entire complex was working. This was an attack. Somehow, Northern Lights saw it coming, as it's interface began to shift and switch, producing lists of numbers at once. "Are they all...relevant?" Hersh asked as he gradually advanced from the doorway.

Counsel didn't want to wait around to find out as he marched to the doors, signalling his security to work on getting it open as a warning alarm started around them. "Breach mode, everybody, breach mode!" Winston yelled. Council took out his own personal firearm - a jet-black Walther P22 - and Hersh drew his Glock as he stayed back to protect the many analyst teams.

SUB3_ENTR_04 - 07:14:50 — **[SIGNAL LOSS] — TRACK LOSS**

"Alright, they already know we're here. Drake, you'll take point. Martine and I will cover you" Bryant growled as the elevator descended the floors to sub-level three. The occupants inside should already be blind when it came to the security cameras. The blinking nosies of the elevator got deeper as they went onto the command floor.

Bryant moved to the side of the elevator, with his back against the wall he indicated with his free hand to the doors "From Virgil's plans there's four guards stationed outside these doors. Drake can take them out - it's down to us to take the control room" He briefed.

Gulping, Virgil pressed his folded laptop up to his chest "What about me?" He stressed towards his supervisor as he got up against the wall of the elevator.

"Keep close to us, and please try to stay alive" Martine quipped as the elevator stopped gradually. A single 'ding' noise was heard as Drake took out two knives; one short and serrated and one long and pointy.

"Time to go to work" Drake breathed. He leapt out the doors the moment they opened, and Martine saw exactly what Bryant said; four guards. All dumbfounded, they never saw what hit them.

Drake was a whirlwind of steel and blood, like a painter who only used red. He ducked and shanked a uniformed guard three times in the chest with his shorter blade, before dodging a pistol-whip and kneeing the next opponent in the chin, he switched to the longer weapon and used it to slice up at the throat. So fast-paced that Martine could barely see, she provided cover-fire by leaping low and shooting at kneecaps.

Finishing the third guard with a kick to the knee and a brutally low stab, Drake imbedded the point of his long-knife into the last opponent's chest, and drove it onwards with a fleshly churning sound. Withdrawing it, he snapped his body sideways and pulled out his silenced pistol with his other hand to shoot at a few oncoming aggressors.

Meanwhile Martine, Bryant and Virgil were advancing slowly and cinematically towards the control room, they stopped at every hallway entrance to blast at some faraway threats, Bryant's arm kicked back at the recoil of his powerful Desert Eagle hand-cannon, while Martine's shots were slick and fast.

SUB3_SRVRM_01 - 07:19:31 — **[SIGNAL LOSS] — TRACK LOSS**

"Sir, I'm attempting to contact any of our Agents, but I'm getting nothing but dead air!" Winston yelled from his station. At the doorway, one of the leaner technicians had managed to crack the door's automatic lock, as Counsel had removed his heavy coat and prepped his pistol.

Two guards had stood with him, holding standard Glock 17s, they loaded up for an intense confrontation. "Burn the hard-drives, shred the kernel chats, wipe and erase whatever you can! Shut down that Machine at any cost!" Counsel hollered.

"With me-" He snapped at the guards when the doors just opened. At the end of the hallway was four other figures, with masses of bodies strewn around them.

They were Counsel's men, bearing wounds and injuries, all collapsed and flat out like squashed rats. The largest gunman fired rapid brutal bullets all at once - knocking down the guard to the left of Counsel. He ducked just in time as a volley of shots passed his head, firing back aimlessly, Counsel heard his bullets ricochet and bounce off the floor as he hugged the wall, elbowing the control mechanism that shut the doors once again.

Hersh seemed to lurk in the foreground, awaiting the insight of his chief. "Mr Hersh. Seal the room" Special Counsel commanded deeply.

The chilling words forced Hersh to pull back the slide of his Glock, and turn to the surviving and panting guard. Counsel began a retreat towards his hidden safe and getaway door as Hersh gunned down his own man, and the last armed guard in the room. Confusion and panic spread in the command room as Hersh turned on his coworkers.

Blasting at the lean technician, Hersh blew open the side of the boy's head before he could even react. Turning slowly to the main desk, he plugged the cowering Winston in the shoulder, and the rest of his analyst team was soon to follow; all picked off in the bloody self-inflicted massacre. Dropping the empty handgun, Hersh followed Counsel to the DNA-scanning terminal.

SUB3_HALLG_14 - 07:21:09 — **[SIGNAL LOSS] — TRACK LOSS**

Roaring as the doors began to slide together to the command bridge _,_ Bryant fired three lazy shots into the steel and bulletproof doors to alleviate his fury and frustrations as he called down the hallway for Virgil.

Rushing to the locked doors, Virgil dropped to one knee in front of the control panel and started to unpack his laptop, using a tiny-edged blade to pry open the casing of the panel and hack at the inner wires. They all watched him work with impatient glances. Bryant's finger touched on the trigger, and he made a noise that sounded like harsh breath, Martine could tell that he wanted to simply blast the door open, but Virgil's way was much faster and cleaner.

Opening a screen of green and white text, Virgil buried himself inside it; scanning and scrolling through effortlessly. Isolating the right code, he highlighted it and hit the execute command. Then with a sliding swoosh, the door opened.

Storming inside, the four Agents found a disappointing scene. Like the battle was already over, the entire room was covered in bullet shells and blood, with formally-dressed men and women prone and lifeless.

SUB3_SRVRM_01 - 07:28:50

"Feeds restored, Sir" Virgil said proudly upon his entrance into the room. Silently, Bryant checked the nearest body as a single young man crawled up to his feet. Wearing an ugly yellow tie, the boy was no older than Martine; and had a young-looking face and a bleeding shoulder wound.

He spluttered blood and had a face of ultimate defeat. "They're...they're already gone" He coughed, pointing weakly to a electronic door in the corner of the room. Martine kept both hands on her weapon, but she didn't want to take any unnecessary shots.

But Drake was not Martine. Remorselessly, he took out his suppressed handgun and aimed up to the new target, then he fired a single piercing shot into the centre of the worker's chest. A spurt of blood came out as the innocent-looking man fell backwards.

Then the true objective of the mission was revealed. Virgil went to the nearest chunky monitor and plugged in a decently-sized memory stick into the side of the computer. Mumbling to himself, Virgil looked back to Bryant and smiled smugly.

"Commencing transfer, shall I attempt to recover the lost files?" Virgil asked. Bryant sheathed his weapon and grunted "The lost files?" He wondered aloud. Seconds later, Virgil explained that some of the old kernel tests, the server communications and some of the software had been wiped, apparently from a internal source. Curiously, Bryant ordered that he persisted with the current transfer of files for now.

Sweeping the room and finding no living threats, Martine and Drake returned to Bryant's side. "Make sure that transfer finishes, Virgil. Agents, move out" Bryant requested. Striding from the room, Martine caught a glimpse of the files, all named as curious functions, she saw a loading bar for each of them complete quickly. After loading, they'd be swapped into a separate file.

CORE ANALYTICS, NUERAL NETWORKS, HEURISTIC ENGINES, RECURSION PROCESSORS, EVOLUTIONARY GENERATORS, BAYESIAN NETWORKS-

Nearly an hour later, Virgil was still watching the screens load, his shadow cast on the floor from the glitching black and white screens. "Be calm, Machine, you'll find your peace in time" He cooed. As the last of the files was copied and swapped to a developmental folder, he removed the flash-drive containing every secret that The Machine had to offer Decima Technologies.

Hearing hollow steps behind him, Virgil expected it to be Bryant. Turning casually, he soon found himself standing at attention. "Director, it's an honour"

"Virgil. Are we operational?" Operations Director Greer said. His hair was a pale grey, and his skin was leathery with thick wrinkles. Clad in a black pinstripe suit, he stuck his hands into his pockets after he placed his coat onto the chair at the head of the monitor table.

The slimy Decima analyst bowed his head "You're just in time for the finish line, I have the files here" He stated.

Huffing pleasurably, Greer observed the screens for himself. "A marvel...isn't it?"

He stood next to Virgil, who was silent for once. Virgil leant down to input some commands, he changed the main monitor's security feed to the outdoor car-park, a sky-line camera, then a rooftop observatory. Noticing a figure in a trench-coat walking by the post-camera on the roof, Greer tutted.

"We have you now, Mr Holloway"


	24. Chapter 24: Target

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 12th 2014

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: 19102 LAMONT ST NW

LAMONT ST POST CAM 190 - 16:08:25

In the late hours of the afternoon, the half-city half-suburban streets were nearly empty of all life. The street was filled with mile-high apartment blocks, one by one up the street, squashed together like a slaughter house. Built in rusted red bricks, the houses were close to Capital Hill, so it was the desired living space for Senators and the men and women of Congress, even some of POTUS's own staff lived on these streets.

It had been two days since Senator Garrison met with the media-baron Rasmussen, and his trail was still up-and-coming. The whole affair at the State Senate building was a washout, as all the judges planned for that day mysteriously dropped out or remised in their duties. The influence of Samaritan was getting greater even now. As his own personal sedan pulled up at the front of his residence, Garrison stepped out with a wide swing of his leg.

"Thank you, Patrice, see you tomorrow" Garrison said to his driver. After a quick waving salutation the Senator walked up to the door of his house, which was one of the many tower-like apartments on the street. Going to his door, it was strange to find no security outside...and the door was already open once he pulled on it's brass doorknob.

Caution rife in his steps, the Senator dropped his briefcase at the door, and carried on into his home. The house was long and narrow, perhaps only twelve feet wide at the front, but it stretched some thirty feet back like a giant shoe box. It was two stories high and had a one story extension at the rear for a kitchen. The wooden framed sash windows were propped open with planks and old brick work, perhaps once a jaunty red, but looked dirty with over a hundred years of the Capital's grime.

Getting to the end of the foyer and touching a hand on the bannister of the staircase, Garrison called out to his staff "Martin? Jameson? Is anyone here?" He yelled in a concerned way through his gruff Pennsylvania accent.

It wasn't until he reached the doorway of his living room, then he got a reply.

"The 4th Amendment would be ashamed" A sinister and fearsome voice spoke from the lounge. Seeing a paper file held in a thin hand, Garrison rounded the corner and felt a cold touch hit the back of his head. The end of a pistol. Turning a little to the left, he saw the black outline of a SIG-Sauer and an emerald-eyed man wielding it.

The man in the chair was flipping through the file, which Garrison knew was full of sensitive information. It was all about Vigilance, Decima and the activation of Samaritan, and this man treated it like it was the Sunday morning newspaper. The man in the chair slapped the file onto the table. "Very thorough. I'm sure you got well acquainted with the specifics of all this...privacy invasion" The man in the chair rasped.

Shuffling slightly, the Senator coughed "I don't know what you mean" He denied, though the proof was right in front of him; literally on his coffee-table in his home. The man in his armchair recoiled his head out of the shadows like a snake "In the first thirty minutes after Samaritan came online...a lot of people died. A TV Anchor in Ohio, a Chief of Staff at the DOS, a high-school prodigy in Texas, Diane Hansen, Adam Saunders...anyone who was a threat to you. You killed them" He spoke quietly, and stared up at the Senator.

Garrison raised an eyebrow and squinted "Who do work for? Vigilance?" He said, confused and annoyed. The man in the chair cackled to himself, and took a breath. Strangely, Ross ignored the comment about the all-seeing Samaritan as the intruder continued speaking regardless "You recently met with Lars Rasmussen, am I correct?"

The man in the chair had little resemblance to any Samaritan Agent that the Senator had seen - he was limber, with greased-back dark hair and an angular face with a dark and smooth complexion - he wore silver and thin-framed glasses, tailored in a funeral-grey suit and a checkered deep purple tie.

"I did, what do you know about it?" Garrison asked, getting impatient and worried as the man behind him straightened the barrel of the gun. The figure in the chair folded his fingers together slowly, and remained emotionless with a quiet menace. "A few days from now he will be put before a trial in the Supreme Court once again, and the verdict will ultimately fall to you" He spoke with an accent, not American, more Chilean or Argentinian.

Confused, the Senator stood neutrally "How do I know this isn't some sort of trick? Greer's little game being played on this me this time" He said firmly.

"Senator, if this 'Greer' had sent us then I imagine you'd be dead right about now" The man in the chair told him. Garrison watched again as the man in the chair reached for a photo-frame on the mantlepiece. "It was I who persuaded the court at the State Senate building to retire that day...and I did it just like this-" He demonstrated, pulling the photography from it's frame.

The picture was of a jovially smiling Garrison and a young girl, bearing his nose and handsome eyes, she wore a floral skirt and a large sun-hat as they stood outside a giraffe enclosure of some faraway Zoo. The man in the chair waved it around a little, watching it flop and flutter in his hand. Ross took a hesitant step forward and the man at his back coiled his hand around the pistol's grip.

While staring at the man in the chair, Ross remembered a key factor in his negotiation...and something that Rasmussen used a lot; blackmail. This man in the armchair could be a unofficial agent of the Zenith-Media Corporation. In the photo Ross and the young teenager were stood as father and daughter, both smiling to the camera.

"Now, I will say my peace; if you want your...beautiful daughter to stay beautiful then you will follow my instructions" He demanded. Studying the picture, the man in the armchair put it down flat against the table for Ross to see.

"Threatening a Senator is a federal offence and will get you life, but once you walk out of here I will see to it that the CIA, ISA and Samaritan gut you like a fish" Garrison retorted strongly, as he glanced up at the small and unexposed security camera staring down at them. Scoffing, the man holding the pistol spoke next, he had a fair and gentle voice, but sounded higher pitched than his friend in the chair "You don't think we've already cut the power to this entire block?" He said rhetorically.

Then Garrison turned pink - he had nothing to bargain with apart from his rank - and clearly the man in front of him wasn't interested in that. "Your daughter...isn't she attending Colombia University?" The man in the chair wondered.

Behind Ross, the assailant with the handgun chortled "I never did get to an Ivy League"

Conceding with a groan, Garrison opened his palms and raised his hands, and the man in the chair crossed his legs. Finally, he was listening.

"This is going to be a very insightful evening" The man in the armchair sunk his body back into the shadows at the corner of the room, his head oscillating slightly like the curves of a viper.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 23rd 2012

LOCATION: Harlem, Manhattan, NEW YORK CITY, USA

2nd FLOOR ST CAM 2 - 17:00:08

"So it's Elias that you're running from?" Link surmised, as him and Floyd walked up the stairs to his run-down Manhattan apartment which he was using as a safe-house. The drab indoor spectacle of his apartment block was cold and uninviting, so it was just the place that Floyd wanted to hide in.

The floor and walls were a wet creme, and the patterned staircase was old and dusty as Link hopped to the top of the foyer. "Yeah, after a certain job went south, I think he wants his money back" Floyd explained. Link perks up at that when Floyd got to the top of the stairs, holding the side of her torso with a flinch. "How much money?" He inquired.

"Twenty five thousand, all in cash and currently in the abandoned cellar of a Harlem parking block" Floyd breathed in subtle pain. What she forgot to mention was the strewn body of the lavish enforcer Copperhead would be found right next to the sack of cash, should anyone come looking. But Link remained uninterested in that.

He checked around the corner and down the stairs again; just in case they were being watched. Turning back to Floyd, Link hurried her along to the corridor where his apartment was "Twenty five thousand - damn Eve, you must be crazy" He exclaimed. It wasn't far until they reached his door, which was bound shut with obvious locks and small chains.

Eve shook her head as Link fiddled with the locks, and opened the door ajar. The apartment was leaking green, with only three rooms and a single tightly packed bathroom. Inside his lounge was a ripped and torn couch and a box-TV. It looked like every other bankrupt apartment in the area, so it was a perfect place to hide.

The stench was of cleaning substances and cigarette smoke, which combined to form a strange miasma that floated above the room like atmospheric fog. Then standing at a worn-out circular table was a shrewd man.

With a dark goatee and receding hair, he had a sour face and stood over a blueprint map of some subway stops and stations. Wearing an old leather jacket and loosely hanging shirt, he eyed Floyd for a minute.

Link did his best to introduce them "Eve, this is Garcia, from that Trinitario Job I talked about a few months ago?" Link said, raising his eyebrows but Eve only nodded and gave a slight shrug in response. Honestly, she didn't remember the guy at all.

Grinning sickly, Garcia had all the charm of a used-car salesman, and the Beretta sticking out his slacks to match. The map on the table was pinned down by bottles of liquor and weapons like knives and pistols.

A member of the feared New York roaming Trinitario gang, Garcia had been a partner of Link for a while, and they had been using the same drug-routes and weapon trading posts for months now. Watching Garcia go back to his map, Link turned and rested his hand on the closed doorframe, speaking to Floyd in a low-voiced and casual manner.

"So, I guess the money's still there?" He pestered, his ebony eyes filling with slow-growing lust. But Floyd was more focused on the map that Garcia was planning over, and what they intended to do with all those points of interest that were pinned down.

Floyd pushed past all the pain and retorted in a snarky way "Don't get any bright ideas Link - it's still mine. I got it fair and square once the job went down" She justified.

However Link was too quick to drop his guard "It was a simple bank job, who was with you?" He questioned arrogantly, with his understated and low voice. Floyd remembered the faces of everyone there, and the exact circumstance on why and how the job failed; but she wasn't prepared to tell him.

Floyd was a former ATM robber who got a lucky break rolling with Elias's crack team, and she wasn't the only one; many lowly criminals got a start with the elusive mafia chief. "I was with four other guys. Only me, Ike and Meech made it out, but I haven't talked to them since" She told him. Link rubbed his chin and glanced at Garcia.

"What happened to the rest?" Link asked sincerely, wondering if he knew anyone who had embarked on that particular job.

"I don't know, they got grabbed by the NYPD after it went south" Floyd hinted at a greater story, but Link was now only after the aftermath of the whole thing, as anyone caught in the Police's grasp wouldn't survive for long. Elias didn't like any loose ends.

Limping out of the doorway, Floyd fell into the couch. Garcia huffed "You might want to help your friend, Cordell" He chastised. Link followed quickly, helping Eve to stretch out and relax, and noticed the blood coming from her torso. "Shit...I'll get something for that" Link cursed, and jogged into his apartment's bathroom.

Leaning over the couch while Link was busy, Garcia studied Floyd's body. He was an odd man, nodding curiously when Eve noticed him. "This job was for Elias, I understand? Very unreasonable, that man. I prefer to do a job cleanly, and less of hiding in this shadows" He said with a noble glare. This? Coming from a Trinitario? Granted, Floyd had no bad-blood or ill-will with them, but she always expected a certain type of person to fall into their ranks.

Link walked back over once Garcia returned to his table, he had brought some bandages and wet-wipes to see if he could help clean the wound. He assumed it was from the heist, so Floyd didn't mention anything about Copperhead or her fight in the parking lot.

Instead, Evelyn was fixated on the map, and Link noticed sharply "Oh, look at that" He spoke humorously as he helped her clean the injury.

"That's for a job coming up, we're leaving Elias. Starting fresh under a new boss" Link declared.

Floyd coughed in surprise. No one ever left Elias. She remembered that Link always talked about a new rising street-gang, and one that he wanted to be apart of. Link noted her silence and decided to let her in on the secret. There was always this unspoken trust between them.

Link went around the couch and sat at the other end "So I've been hearing about this underground gang, right? A brotherhood, led by this ice-cold dude called Dominic. I thought I'd get the scoop - turns out, he's been betting against Elias too - and he's all about the hearts and minds, likes to get people on side, you know?" He divulged.

Eve nodded in agreement, and prompted Link to continue. "Guy's got nine lives, and unlike Elias, he'll always meet you face-to-face" He smiled.

He hushed his voice for the next part of the pitch, quickly regarding Garcia with a suspiciously fast look. "You see, Dominic's talking about uniting the New York underworld. After the Trinitarios are done with HR; they'll be helping him secure things - street-level" Link described with a cocky smirk.

Floyd judged it all; a new and unknown crime-lord stepping up to take charge of the underground scene, using already existing means to gain power and spreading his reign through word of mouth? Sounded an awful lot like the start of Elias. Despite that, Floyd still saw this as a chance for a new cause.

"When can we meet him?" She asked, and Link was quick to reply. "I've already set something up...he's starting in the drug trade, so he wants six pound blocks of chalk, then we get a meeting" He divulged. Meth? For a single conversation? It was hard to believe, but even the bosses have to start somewhere.

"How soon?" Floyd said simply.

"Sometime next month, I have a contact on an old phone number, he'll tell me when" Link responded quietly.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 12th 2014

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

IRVING NW ST POST 035 - 21:07:50

Driving down the long freeway-like road from the outskirts of New York, it would be a long drive home for the Congressman. Reading a passage from his most recently bought book 'Superintelligences' By some foreign philosopher. Curiously his police escort had been rerouted since they reached the Capital.

Beside McCourt was his middle-aged blonde assistant, Leslie. She held a constantly warm smile as she folded papers and checked a couple of files. They sat in the back of his government-plated car which sped along the road. Huffing as he flicked the next page, his aide notified him of recent news.

"The Rasmussen trial will go ahead, at the Supreme Court apparently. Senator Garrison would like you present, Sir" Leslie informed him. The Congressman still wasn't listening.

Watching McCourt mumble to himself, Leslie chuckled lightly and tapped him on the shoulder. "Shall I take a rain-check?" She said politely. Stumbling in his seat, he coughed and set himself right again. Shaking his head, he felt like he owed Ross some slack after all he took with Decima.

"Talk to Jameson, see if I can get a meeting with the Senator...and Judge Gates. But before that, I want everything we have on the Executive Board of Decima Technologies" McCourt issued. Closing his book, his female aide started to work busily on her phone.

Their driver, a constantly cautious man called Duran, drove them towards an empty intersection of four deserted lanes of traffic. After McCourt's kidnapping at the hands of a fake Secret Service Agent, Duran had been more paranoid than usual these past few months.

McCourt leaned in between the two seats at the front and looked at the empty junction. "Don't take it too fast, you never know who's at the wheel at this time" He joked with a scoffing laugh. Duran was wordless, only offering a pity-smile. It was too quiet to mean any good.

On the nearest lamppost, a ball-like camera was in position to watch the cars every move, turning smoothly, it highlighted the occupant with a inverted red triangle through Samaritan's UI. Zooming out to a satellite viewed map, the AI checked all the cars in the area, marked them with a speed limit, and selected the one holding the Congressman.

SEARCHING FOR TARGET_

TRACKING TRANSPORT VEHICLES_

 **/ / / TARGET LOCATED**

Going back to the street-level cameras, it honed onto the vehicle and prepared to disable it. At the upcoming junction, Samaritan prepared it's trap. The interface switched between multiple traffic cameras at once, and lined up a selection of defences to box it in like a wild bull or a herd of cattle. Zooming back out to the bird's eye view, it highlighted the maintenance bollard posts at the end of the intersection.

/ / / REROUTING VEHICLE

 **ACTIVATING STREET BOLLARDS**

KENYON STREET NW

HOBART STREET NW

17TH STREET NW

 **MT PLEASANT STREET NW**

Approaching the first opening of the intersection, Duran checked both ways as he pulled the car to a stop, only noticing some domestic headlights in the distance. Next, he saw a line of posts rise from the ground suddenly, about half a mile in front of them and on the other side of the four-way crossing.

Concerned, Duran pulled away slowly as he checked the rear-mirror to eye McCourt, who was conversing with Leslie in the back seat. "Congressman, do you know anything about-"

Then their car was sidelined. A huge crashing and crunching noise was heard in the silence as an all-black SUV smashed into the car's side. Reeling, Duran was crushed into the doorframe of the car as the Congressman was thrown out, and Leslie's head was knocked into the seat in front of her.

Behind the first SUV was another that prowled sinisterly behind the first attacker. It came to a slow stop about twenty meters away. Then the doors opened all at once. Stepping out first was a pair of formal office-going shoes, attached to tall burly legs and a long midsection. His face caught in shadows, Zachary wore a long overcoat above his charcoal suit.

"Shots to the head - censor mess. On my mark" He commanded. Stepping out next was Martine, still wearing her formal and feminine suit, she blinked with a breath and regarded Zachary with a nod. He had been sent by Greer under the orders of Samaritan to secure McCourt's phones and any black-box technology on the car.

Next was another SAS-type (much like Lambert) he had a brown comb-over and a symmetrical face, with blue eyes and a striped tie, known as ' **ASSET / / 1599** ' but Zachary just called him Kersey. The Assets were fond of a one-name alias.

Behind Kersey another squad of rifle-wielding men appeared, most likely from a reserve car. They formed a semi-circle as Samaritan coded it's instructions to Zachary's earpiece.

"PRIMARY TARGET CONGRESSMAN ROGER MCCOURT. ELIMINATE ALL OBSTRUCTIONISTS"

"As you wish" Zachary proclaimed proudly. Martine strutted up to his side as Kersey took charge of the rear of the assault. "Engage" Zachary said singularly, stepping forward and drawing his Glock 19.

Following his footsteps, Martine withdrew her SIG-Sauer P226 and Kersey held a hand up to signal his riflemen. Together, they approached the Congressman's overturned car. The SUV that had crashed into it in the first place was driven by a team of Samaritan's most loyal elite - those willing to die in a crash for the cause.

The leader was a bald and haunting man called Bateson, he wore a dark grey turtleneck and a form-fitting coat, and carried a silver and suppressed Walther-PPK.

Bateson was cold and odd, deathly pale and a former Force Recon Scout sniper, he wasn't a man to joke with. He exited his car and said nothing, wordlessly, he started to stalk in behind Zachary, both hands on his weapon.

Martine did the same, her heels clicking on the road as she walked towards the wreckage of the car. Ordering Kersey's team to stay back and secure the crash-site, Zachary leant for the door. Flanking his shoulder, Martine raised her weapon.

Empty. The car had been emptied somehow. The passenger door had been opened and all the documents had been ripped and left on the seats. Turning back around, Zachary let one of his bodyguards take over the search as he paced around the side of the crashed car. Martine ruffled through the papers, the secure recording device had been removed along with any phone.

Clearly the occupants had caught a wind of what was coming. Zachary started a search of the area. Combing the roads, the heavy riflemen started to backtrack while the elite squad searched the surroundings.

Stepping carefully around to the back of the car, Zachary heard a faint crawling sound nearly a meter away from the car. A blonde woman with her hair speckled in blood was struggling to get away. She wore a black blouse and coat and her hands were skinned and raw. She inched away from the car as Zachary tilted his head. Martine soon stood beside him, lowering her weapon to target the woman's back and head.

15TH ST NW POST CAM 066 - 21:30:17

Cowering behind the brick-built wall of some modern charter school, McCourt had been dragged to safety by his helper Duran and an innocent pedestrian. The sweater-wearing civilian peeked around the corner of the wall, and saw lines upon lines of black-clad soldiers, searching the car and walking around the perimeter.

Duran knelt down next to the bleeding McCourt, who was asking questions in a rasping and breathless voice "Where's...where's Leslie?" He requested. Resting his hand in the wounded man's shoulder, Duran leant over to the helpful bystander "What can you see?" He asked urgently.

The civilian peered around the corner to see a gang of the sinister soldiers rounding on a hobbled and broken woman. The lead member was a gigantic figure, and beside him was a lean woman, an official-looking man and a whole host of other faceless drone-like people. They stood in a straight line behind the crawling victim, and lowered handguns to her back.

A muffled order was executed; and a volley of shots struck down the bleeding woman. Cringing and turning away from the stream of bullets, the civilian cursed "Jesus...who are these guys?" He whispered. McCourt shuffled forward and Duran held out his hand. "I have a few ideas" The bodyguard realised.

Pulling out a Ruger SR9c, Duran checked his jacket for ammunition. Finding only two stocks of bullets, he prodded the bystander "Are you armed?"

Surprisingly, the civilian took out his own revolver, a Smith & Wesson Model 66 in fact, shorter than most, the barrel was snubbed to be blunter than the other models. Duran flicked his eyebrows in mild approval. "Yeah I know - second amendment and all" The pedestrian said strongly.

"Congressman, can you stand?" Duran tried to pull up his boss, but he just slumped back down. He wasn't in any position to stand, let alone flee a firefight. "I'll distract them - you stay and cover the Congressman" Duran pleaded, standing as the astute and civil bystander cocked his revolver.

Peering out from the covered position, Duran spotted Leslie's bullet-ravaged body and the uniformed splinter government agents tracing the crash-site. Stealthily crouching and sneaking out from the wall, he needed to make it to the pay-phone at the other side of the road. He had already lost connection from his own phone, and Leslie always made sure that the Congressman never had one on his person.

Ducking low, he kept down as one of the automatic-rifle wielding men stepped closer to him. With the pay-phone in sight, he dodged their lamps as he hid behind an SUV.

Moving his head up to perform a loose head-count, he got up to at least sixteen before a gruff voice called over "Hey, you!"

Whipping around and raising his pistol, Duran fired a couple of shots that pierced the nameless agent's shoulder. Downing him, the event instantly and immediately made Duran the target of every other antagonist in the area.

The shadowy mountain of a man swiftly turned and began to hail bullets from his pistol at long range, flicking and sparking around Duran, he fired back loosely. Soldiers wielding rifles struggled to get positioning as Duran made a run for the phone's metal booth.

IRVING NW ST POST 101 - 21:39:18

Watching the faraway target dodge shots and fire back from the distance, Martine marched with purpose - both hands on her weapon, she added to the hailstorm with her own muster.

Slinking in-between the SUVs, Martine and Kersey started firing together, Martine ducked to one knee as the older man unloaded his FNP-9 from above; most of the shots missed at such a distance, but that didn't stop them. The closer the horde of Assets got, the less bullets the attacker had.

Their new obstructionist target wasn't the Congressman, probably a member of his security detail making a desperate bid for freedom.

Zachary stomped at pace with the interloper, exchanging shots and getting closer to him. Pinning the man down, Zachary forced him into a stalemate. Packed behind a civilian's parked car, the intruder would soon be faced with impending elimination.

"I have him - Martine, find our target!" Zachary bellowed. Martine quickly did as she was bid, summoning Bateson and a few of his best troops, they strode confidently towards the area behind the crashed car. Stepping onto the glass-covered road and searching the perimeter of the building, Martine spoke clearly into the air. "Is target present?"

Quickly, Samaritan's interface opened and swapped between cameras until it found a perspective that highlighted the whereabouts of McCourt. Cowering behind a wall with an irrelevant. Changing his username to 'deviant' Samaritan quickly worked to scrub the man's profile. Identifying the second combatant, Samaritan brought up an alert screen and assigned the man with a red flashing icon.

 **DEVIANT** \- IRVING NW STREET

 **DISRUPTIVE ACTIVITY**

MONITORING_

 **CONCLUSION:** ENEMY COMBATANT

 **ACTION:** ELIMINATE

MANUALLY TRACKING_

"LEFT. PRIORITY TARGET AT 10.052 METERS. ELEVEN-O-CLOCK. ELIMINATE PRIORITY TARGET. ELIMINATE ENEMY COMBATANT" Samaritan's mechanised tones drawled to her. Following the instructions, Martine walked in that direction, with Bateson following closely behind. Coming up on the grounds of a tall charter-school at the edge of the intersection, Martine turned the corner into one of the bordering alleyways, and not that far from the crash.

Suddenly a plainly-dressed Male aimed a stubby revolver her way - firing, Martine dodged his shot and was stunned when it collided with one of Bateson's men. The bald assassin quickly put two silenced and high-pressure rounds into the deviant's head and chest. Martine saw the terror quickly flash on the combatant's face before he went down in a pool of spurting blood.

"Hey, what did Zachary say about censor mess?" Martine quipped, smirking. But Bateson gave her nothing but a scowl from his gaunt and malnourished face.

Slowly, they approached the nearly comatose Congressman. Out of energy from the crash, he could barely open his eyes. The collision had thrown him from the car and out onto the road, dragging on the gutter and the sidewalk, his suit was torn and his face scabbed, he looked up with tired eyes.

Realising his ultimatum - these were Samaritan's people. The slaves. Personally, McCourt was glad he didn't become a proxy and a puppet like Garrison. In his final moments, he tipped his head in a nod.

"Brave new world. Go ahead - do what you gotta d-"

Martine fired a single echoing shot into his head. The body fell limply in one motion.

Watching from the box-like camera, Samaritan zoomed in and out of the scene, cataloging the Assets present, and then a small image of McCourt appeared as two red lines crossed out his face, and faded back into the blackness of the camera feed.

 **ASSET / / 029**

 **ASSET / / 047**

 **ASSET / / 1268**

 **ASSET / / 2001**

 **/ / / TARGET** MCCOURT, ROGER F

 **TARGET ELIMINATED**

IRVING NW ST POST 102 - 21:45:03

Hearing the commotion and seeing the light of gunshots, Duran reloaded his pistol for the final time. There was no more chances after this. With the gun-toting agents bearing down on him, he came out from cover briefly to blast at the closer operative. Taking him in the chest, the bullets collapsed the assailant. But that was only one of a small army.

Another few rounds were fired, and the largest agent began hounding Duran with stray shots and suppressing fire. Keeping him back, the bodyguard needed to conserve bullets. Until he saw an opening, leaning forward over the car he hid behind, he swerved from a bullet and shot at the windows of the black SUV.

Shattering the cover, a spray of glass struck the large man and his companion. That was all Duran needed. Moving to take prime position, he suddenly felt a sharp impact in his back, and his gun-wielding arm fall and sting in blood. Hearing gunshots again, his ears rang as they got closer and he found himself collapsing and falling onto his back.

Above him was a woman; unlike the golden-blonde assailant that had attacked initially. This one was silent, mostly, with ash-coloured black hair and a long face, she was skinny and athletic, and had the features of some pixie boy, with a dot nose and deep, hollow brown eyes. Wearing a two-piece funeral suit and shining shoes, the woman held an older SIG-Sauer in both hands.

Walking out from the corner, Martine and Bateson went to report to Zachary - and in turn, Samaritan and Mr Greer. "The target has been eliminated, but we've found no trace of -" One of Bateson's men began.

"Cinder" Martine finished in shock and admiration.

"Martine. You look good. How're you doing?" Cinder replied, as if they had met shopping at the grocery store.


	25. Chapter 25: Restaurant in Bern

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: JUNE 12th 2008

LOCATION: BERN, SWITZERLAND

ENTR CAM D - 19:18:05

From the outside, the peaceful Swiss restaurant was a calming place, with little thatched-tables and chairs around the outside, and a luxurious interior full of romantic lamps, wide windows and curving corners. The place was busy and open, the perfect place for a deal.

The light creme walls were inviting and warm, and couples all sat in small configurations around single tables with little round lamps shining cosy colours onto their faces. It wasn't even late evening and the families dinners and romantic conversations had already begun. This type of chatter would continue for the rest of the night, so it was a good cover to hide behind. Staying in plain view as to not tip anyone off, a formal man sat at one of the couple's tables.

His face was caked in dark stubble, and his face was round and ordinary. Nothing out of place. He had tried to grow out his hair for a disguise's sake; but it didn't proceed any further than the tip of his forehead. A crooked nose and sagging eyes, Richard Barnett was attempting to blend in. Holding (in his rucksack) a faraday bag that held a crucial piece of technology.

Recently, he had been contacted by a shell-company owned by a Russian bank, who gave him a gambit; sell his newly made and copyable propagation module for a very high sum of money. This was a chance to support his ill daughter and panicked wife in their time of need, so he had taken a 'business trip' to the neutral ground of Switzerland to avoid any international conflicts. Bringing with him a dossier of important employees in his own technology firm - just in case they wanted proof of his worth - Richard touched his fingers together in anticipation.

The propagation module, nicknamed Seltene (Or as the misprint on the box described; Seltina) was made over the course of seven years, and was the largest private project ever built by his firm at that time. Made initially to help support the stock-market if a large crash ever occurred, the program would help distribute spyware to protect a possible collapsing economy.

But under the orders of his Russian contact, Barnett had reversed-engineered it to take out any US firm's internal accounts, stocks, information, everything. He felt terrible, but one must do terrible things for the good of their families. A man must provide, after all. Struck with fear, soon his contact would arrive and he would see the truth in the deal. One small module of a computer chip for just over three million dollars.

Waiting on the door to open, Richard looked at his wallet, finding a innocent picture of him and his family in New York, standing just on the brink of Times Square. His wife was pale, and had streaking brown hair that fell in clumps around her shoulders. Holly (his daughter) Was a constantly medically ill girl, diagnosed with Leukaemia, the money that Richard got today could easily pay for some more advanced treatments.

The television that played blurred footage had just cut to a commercial of a new housing estate in the Swiss Alps, sponsored by some large digital and print media company, and the groups of conglomerates that served it.

Turning to look back around in front of him, he saw the bell over the door ding when a man walked into the restaurant. Dressed in a silver suit, he passed over everyone else until he passed Barnett's table too. He was simply meeting his girlfriend here. As the couple began to kiss each other lightly and sit down, Richard was shocked when he looked back around to see a figure already seated at his table.

"Good evening, Mr Dov, I apologise for the lateness of my visit, do you have the contents?" He requested sharply with an astute tone. Referring to Barnett by his professional pseudonym, this man he met was every inch the professional. Wearing rectangular glasses and having a curving chin and drooping blue eyes, he wore a maroon-purple dress shirt and black raincoat. Assuming him to be the Russian contact 'Vindicator' Barnett held his ground. "The Money"

Saying it only once, Vindicator nodded. He reached under the table for a briefcase and pulled it up onto the top of the table. Barnett spotted a scar on the man's chin as he opened the locks on the case. Showing him a short glimpse of the green-lined case, Barnett showed his own bag, inside the small faraday pocket at the bottom of the rucksack was the module.

The Vindicator's gaze kept on Richard for the moment "You scrubbed everything about this? No more digital records exist of any kind? If this gets out Dov, I'll be sure the FBI know's who to talk too" His Russian accent pronounced thickly. A covert member of the FSB, Vindicator was looking for a tool; a bargaining chip in case the US ever found itself against Russia - or if Russia wanted to mass-produce the chip to create more deadlier copies for their own use.

Barnett never fired the gun; but he did supply the bullets. Vindicator extended his right hand and held the case in his left, huffing to himself. "Of course I did, the module no longer exists - just make sure to change it's name when you get home" Richard offered a wry smile.

Unimpressed, Vindicator put the briefcase down and slid it towards Richard's side of the table. Then he stopped. "You came in here with a file, what's inside it?" The Vindicator said with a drawn-out tone.

"It's a...log, so to speak. Nine years of work, everything I've collect on Robotica Systems" Barnett continued. Suddenly, The Vindicator took major interest in this. Vindicator's face was clean, and looked freshly shaved, with a subtle and fearsome edge in his silence. Snorting, the Russian eyed Barnett in a frightening way, his eyes flashing with daunting possibility.

Demandingly, the Russian's head leered towards Richard. "Give me the file" He whispered with the undertone of a threat. This wasn't apart of the agreement, it was simply a work-ready document that Barnett had brought for a bargaining piece, and he never suspected the FSB Agent to pick up on it's inclusion.

His hand began to shake as Richard sat up straighter, bringing his voice to one of composure, he stood his ground. "An extra five thousand" He demanded. In all the power of the Kremlin they must have brought some more money, more than what he was already being paid for the module that is. The Vindicator (His codename in the agency - while his alias was one of Sergei Kovalyov) turned his head to take a sweeping look at the restaurant.

"I would not antagonise us, Barnett-" Kovalyov revealed, much to the hidden surprise of Barnett himself. Judging by the eyes burning holes in his back, Richard guessed that the FSB messenger had brought more than himself to this meeting. "Because you never know how many of us there are" He sneered as a uniformed man sauntered past the table, shooting Barnett the worst of killer looks.

Giving in, Richard pulled out the dossier and passed it to his contact, who gave a wide smile. Thanking him, the Russian tucked it inside his raincoat, and confidently slid the briefcase full of cash to Barnett's side of the table. "That's one million in cash. The other two million will be transferred later this evening" Sergei ensured.

Next, Barnett reached deeper into his bag, and took out a small black pouch, with a silver-lined rim. Tossing the pouch to his contact, the Russian took it without any question, holding it in his hand - he threw it up and down a couple of times - testing the weight. He seemed satisfied. "You're going to be a very rich man, Mr Barnett" Sergei congratulated. As Richard held the briefcase under the table, the FSB Agent stood as he tucked the pouch into his pocket.

Sat across from each other, Barnett inquired about the state of his company's documents, and their continued alliance with Russia's intelligence community. "So, I guess the pen beats the sword, huh? I mean, I hope we still keep in contact" He implored. His contact gave a sour reply as he glanced downwards, most likely to his phone. "I have found that whoever wields the sword...decides who holds the pen"

Typing on his burner flip-phone, the FSB Agent had his own private contact, typing the cryptic message on a secure line, he quickly hit the send button after writing it.

TO: NEWPORT, G.

Module secure.

No loose ends.

Leak the names.

SENDING...

As the bustle of the restaurant continued, Sergei stood and cleaned his coat with a swipe of his hand. About to stand too, Richard quickly hurried a question "You're just going to walk away? What about the deal?"

"Mr Barnett, we have what we need. Our alliance is finished" Sergei concluded quietly. Walking to the door, at least four other hidden agents followed him, dressed in a degree of different disguises, they fled in a single file line, each holding the exit door for the man behind. Until the final agent cast Barnett a cold glance.

ENTR CAM F1 - 19:26:39

Outside the restaurant was a strangely empty street. Both sides of the road were littered with shops, restaurants and cafes. But no tourists or local was walking around at this time. Most people were heading out from work or had already reached their home. Sergei's troop of cars filed in at once, and he gave the module's package to one of his plain-clothed American bodyguards. "Take this - and bring the cars around, I'll meet you across the street"

"Of course, Sir" The bodyguard responded. A former CIA Operator, this man had a stern look when he stepped into the back of the car and ordered the driver to pull away. As his guard held the package in his hand, Sergei watched as the cars neatly exited the street. Looking across the street - he saw the wiry figure of a female sat near the window of a late-night club and cafe. More upmarket than a nightclub, the establishment had slightly blacked-out windows, but the Russian could still see the outline of the woman.

Young, she was pale and her hair was as short as a fuse, wearing a slim dress, she held a large cup of some vibrant ice-liquid. Stepping into the club, the Russian walked towards the unique woman at the bar immediately. Glancing her up and down, scars had replaced most of the skin on her arms, with some old burn marks and faded marks. Most of the scars looked like former tattoos that had been removed - as if her body was once a canvas for ink. She was frail, looking at Sergei as she sucked on the straw of an neon orange icy drink and gave a sultry wink to him.

Her makeup was dark and brooding and her lips were glossed in a glittering dark purple. Her hair was dyed straight down the middle, one side was a jet-black and the other side was a cotton-candy pink. Approaching her, Sergei sat on a bar-stool beside her. "What are you doing here, Georgia?" He asked with hidden urgency.

"I'm having a drink" She replied in her English twang, crossing her legs. In her other hand, she held a silver flip-phone, exactly like the one that Sergei had. Seeing him notice it, Georgia cockily smirked.

Georgia Newport had survived the prison shootout, and was simply put into solitary confinement for the rest of her stay in prison. But thanks to a technicality, she was accidentally released with a batch of other prisoners on a community service trip. Armed with only a satellite phone, Newport contacted her friends in Tarasovich's gang, who broke her out on the bus-ride back to the lockup only hours later. Now, she was hiding out in Switzerland waiting for transport back into the US.

Sergei Kovalyov (a simple work alias; as the man that Georgia spoke to was really the Shadow Army's leader; Vladislav Chekhov) Coughed with a laugh. Posing as a member of the FSB, he had managed to convinced Barnett to hand over his propagation module for a high sum. Now in possession of one of the most powerful pieces of technology in the world - the plan was now to cover up his tracks.

Lowering his voice suddenly, Chekhov sat low as he saw Barnett himself exit the restaurant with a concerned look on his face. "Is that the mark?" Georgia guessed. She got a nod in response. Going for his phone again, he checked the most recent messages - nothing. He trusted that Georgia had already received his message though - as he sat right next to her.

"It'll be done. I'll set up Riemann as the Kremlin's spy, it'll be quite the scandal at the ISA, his death won't be investigated" Newport chirped with a whisper. The plan was concocted by Chekhov to cover his actions perfectly. With the module stolen, they'll make hundreds of copies and have enough illegal spyware to take down the internet itself. But they needed a fall-guy, so after Georgia dug up some of Nazarov's old files it became apparent that he was tracking an undercover ISA team in Moscow, they found one.

As the 'FSB' orchestrated the meeting with Barnett, it could be pinned on one of those ISA Agents that they jumped ships and knew about the American technology firm ran by Barnett, so arranged to buy his new secret project. Then it would come to fruition - the ISA Team would be pulled from Moscow once the information leaked and the American DOD would have no choice but to disband the squadron.

Removing the file on Barnett's company, Chekhov cast his eyes over it. A list of projects under different and unique names like 'Genoa' and 'Tractor Rose' all programs that the firm may have been developing for either public or government use. It looked like they had been commissioned to work on a much larger-scale development project in Washington State.

"I need to go back to Oregon - it looks like this game just got a bit more interesting" Chekhov bragged, standing up from his chair. Georgia lingered on his shoulder, placing her hand there tenderly, and her persuasive gesture worked; as the Russian swung around to look at her.

"If the ISA finds you; you know what'll happen" She warned him. But Chekhov didn't mind her words, she was smart and a skilled hacker - but she lacked knowledge of the bigger picture. That was her fault with Nazarov. Often, she'd presume too much and rush into the battle early, before the first sword was even drawn from it's sheath. With confidence, Chekhov folded his fingers together and left his index fingers outstretched and touching.

"Control has their army...wait until they meet ours" Chekhov gave this resounding remark as he took from the room, folding the file and sliding it back into his coat.

When he left the club, he checked the restaurant in front of him across the street. Looking into the camera at the front of the establishment - he always recognised when he was being watched. From the small box-like camera, The Machine recognised him with a white identification box in it's archive mode. Zooming out, it switched the box from a harmless white to a crimson red.

NAME: CHEKHOV, VLADISLAV K

SSN: XXX-XX-0022

DOB: 1959/09/12

POB: OMSK, RUSSIA

ADDRESS: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

OCCUPATION: FSB SECTION CHIEF 1993 - 2005

VERKEHRSKAMERA SEC 7B - 19:40:21

Stepping into the blackened 2007 Bentley Continental, Chekhov's aide had done his duty and turned the motorcade around, heading for a private airport hangar that the terrorist leader and former Russian section chief had bought out. Ordering his man to prepare his private jet, his personal technician and advisor perked up - Ernst Bortnikov. He was a gifted IT specialist and a more outgoing member of Chekhov's circle of trust.

Unfolding a bulky laptop, Ernst began to scroll through reels of white text and websites, grinning when his boss showed him the module in it's faraday packaging. Unsealing it, he held it aloft. Ernst was fat-faced, with German-Russian heritage and wisps of curling grey hair that curved backwards on his head. Wearing a hooded coat and sweater, Ernst removed the module to inspect it. "He didn't bug it, did he?" He quirked, feeling around the sides of the propagation chip.

"Barnett isn't a fool, he knows what's good for him. Speaking of that, you can wire the extra two million to his Swiss account now" Chekhov reminded him. Doing as his employer said, Ernst switched over to a screen full of names and numbers and filed up Barnett's account and inputted a large loading bar, it shifted figures until a square two million dollars was completely deposited into the account.

Continuing to decipher the module, Ernst grew concerned about the new recruits to Chekhov's growing faction "Are you sure that Newport will succeed? Taking down a few electronic billboards in London is one thing, but tricking the ISA? It's a whole new game" He stammered.

Knowing that Georgia was damaged goods, Chekhov didn't fancy her chances, but for now he needed her; she was the only person that knew about Nazarov's Operations in Moscow and the connections to a larger terrorist cell - one that Chekhov was close to building. Her hacking skills couldn't be denied though, and framing an ISA Agent was only a small part of the larger plot. "How soon can you copy that module?" He asked Ernst.

"Immediately. The Rylatech Prototypes are all I require for the manufacturing process" He whined. They had been using machine-building apparatus from technology firms across the country, all acquired through stock-holding and backdoor deals. The most prolific company was Rylatech, which had been a ploy-company for the Chinese and the Russian governments for years. Chekhov then passed his technical consultant the dossier on Barnett's firm, pointing to it as an item of interest.

"You'll have the prototypes as soon as we reach the hangar - and I want you to find the schematics of this module and send them to Patrushev at Lubyanka Square - see if he can't find someone to modify it" Chekhov requested as the cars raced in single file towards the aircraft hangar.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 12th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

FAC APLH HALL_07 - 21:59:06

With fuzzy indents dancing around his eyes in black and white splotches, he saw nothing but a blur as distant voices called all around him. He was being taken somewhere, as he could hear the wheeling noises below his body. Being pushed - he was in a wheelchair in some long and dimly lit corridor. Among the ensemble of pure audio, he could hear two distinct voices become much clearer.

One was gruff and stern, a deadpan noise of exhaustion was breathed out of her body. It was female, as the certain inflections would give it away. Her companion was Male, obviously English; and of a more refined palette. The woman was tough, as she pushed him down the hallway with force and speed, as the man beside her strolled with the upmost of high-class astuteness.

The woman, called Briggs, was dressed in her pale white orderly overalls. She grunted with a heaving breath as she pushed the man strapped in the chair along the corridor. "I think he soiled himself - what a mess - I thought he was a DOD official?" She commented honestly.

"Perhaps you over-sedated him" Thorndyke replied, as they reached the elevator foyer at the end of the corridor. Wearing his dark blue pinstripe suit and checkered tie, the Englishman swayed into the path of the nearest elevator, pressing the red button with his forefinger, he stood aside to allow Briggs to wheel Cayden Hayward inside the metal box.

"Either Mr Hayward becomes a team player after his next visit to the OR...or bowel issues will be the least of his problems" Thorndyke said with a humorous sneer. Moving the wheelchair into the elevator, the female orderly didn't react, she'd normally only hold her respect and friendship for Lambert; who was currently unavailable. "Surgery waits for no man, Mr Hayward" He expressed as the clink of the doors brought them to a satisfying close.

With that order swiftly carried out, Thorndyke waltzed back towards the one of the control rooms at the east side of the building. Upper-class in nature, Thorndyke had a long face with a thin neck, a rounded nose and beady brown eyes. His ears curled upwards behind a flat line of brown and greying hair. Educated in the highest establishments of British education, Thorndyke was elected as one of Samaritan's chiefs for his knowledge of strategy and SAS-level tactics. Formerly working in the planning and analysis divisions of MI6, he had crossed paths with men like Lambert and Alastair Wesley all too often.

Walking onto the east corridor, Thorndyke felt someone coming up behind him at some speed - dodging just in time, an aide he recognised rushed down the hallway. "What is it?" Thorndyke demanded, the aide (known as Wyatt) responded while stepping carefully so he didn't stop and fall at such a speed "Zachary's team is back; they've successfully eliminated the Congressman"

FAC APLH HALL_07 - 22:02:16

 **ASSET / / 1189**

 **ASSET / / 2020**

FAC APLH CAM 65 - 22:02:19

For the first time working under Samaritan; the AI had surprised her. In all the world's infinite camera feeds and countless assets to add to the army, one darkly dressed short-haired woman wasn't that much of a problem, right? Cinder's return had come as a shock to say the least. Not many people survived when Decima collapsed, only a handful of survivors converted to Samaritan's ways.

Once they all exited the cars at the Steiner's garage complex, Barrett was waiting. Curious about Martine's connection to one of his own enforcers, he met her with a smug smile. Still dressed in his grey uniform, Barrett opened the double-doors with a strong push; enough for Martine to slip through them. Following her into the hallway to the command centre, he managed to file in just beside Martine as she walked.

As Barrett's thuggish face twisted into a snarky expression, Martine waited in silence for his sharp opening comment. "So...how does a former Hague worker and one of Samaritan's best end up knowing a New Jersey-born Bounty Hunter?" Barrett wondered aloud. So that was Cinder's background, Martine had longed to find out more about the silent woman, and now she had a city of birth and her former occupation. Bounty hunting, most likely for the state or the courts; acting like a sheriff and bailiff to those who don't pay up to the county.

Not wanting to show any emotion at this revelation, Martine looked to walk straight ahead into the control room at the east side of the building. Snorting, Barrett held open the door for Martine and a couple of agents that followed her. The eerie lights coming up from the technician's workstations lit up their faces as Murrow stood in the middle of it all. Barrett flanked Martine as she came to a stop beside the former American paratrooper. "If you're wondering about Greer, he's attending our little NHC operation, but he'll be back shortly" Murrow informed her.

Turning her head to view the massive wall-mounted screen, the camera feed had shifted to a office building, and then a street where a convoy of large white trucks moved supplies down the motorways of New York. Sensing Martine's deeper emotions and tensed mannerisms, Murrow wiped his blazer for dust, and stood a little straighter as the monitor changed again to a street corner. Hushing himself, Murrow leant into Martine's ear and thanked her for her effort in taking out the Congressman.

Martine expressed her regards in a nod, folding her hands in front of her in a cold and calculating way - the same way that Lambert and Flint would.

As Samaritan's feed changed to a busy intersection, Martine lost herself in watching the cars and motorbikes zip past, and the interface busy at work, cataloging every vehicle and the people inside. It was mesmerising, the simple motion of the cars, and Samaritan's UI clocking every one of them. Cutting suddenly, to outside another street corner, the reticle honed in on a package distribution vehicle.

ROOFTOP OUTLOOK W - 22:14:29

 **MONITORING APS FLEET_**

APS VEHICLE # 78901

"Package distribution? Is Samaritan getting into EBay?" Barrett laughed a little at his own joke as he joined Murrow's side from the background of the control room. Looking at the time from the camera, and it's position on one of the many rooftops of New York, Martine saw as the reticle zoomed in onto the vehicle, and followed until it was out of view. Samaritan had many objectives and missions working simultaneously - so it was hard to grasp all of them at the same time.

Murrow turned his torso to glance at Barrett "Of course - How else do you expect us to get all this equipment?" He growled sarcastically. Martine smirked and looked back to the screen. It was peaceful for the moment. She had heard the radio chatter from Zachary to his boss - Greer - and the plans that the AI had formed to falsely vaccinate people and then take their DNA sample for entire new database; for whatever reason. Martine didn't think that much about it. As the highway continued streaming through on Samaritan's monitor, Murrow placed his hands into his pockets as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Martine, both of them having the exact same gleefully aware smile.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: JUNE 23rd 2008

LOCATION: Midtown, NEW YORK CITY, USA

ROOFTOP SEC 05 ZONE 12 - 20:09:53

Watching from the top of a former stock-trading building, and overlooking the Rylatech Plaza, a figure cast in shadow and a long overcoat kept vigilant above the lower skyscrapers and box-like buildings. The sky was black tranquility on this night; married to a poetry of stars. It was the softness that called a broken body and brain to rest and let the heart go in steady rhythm. No more than an hour ago the sky was painted with hues of red, orange and pink, but all colour had faded in the horizon, leaving only a deep black canvas with no stars to be looked upon.

Stepping up onto the concrete barrier, Holloway looked down on the street. Where the people moved like ants, with tall street-lights bathing them in white and yellow. He had come here to watch and perform some more human surveillance; he always hated how Decima would employ hundreds of geeks and IT wizards to perform the technical tasks for them. But he was simply a recruiter, his days and battles fought in the NZ-SAS meaning nothing to Greer and his acolytes.

Apart of many experimental teams that focused on working combat strategies and training, Holloway was an important tool, until he fell out of love and was demoted for taking an injury and saving a man's life. The same action that cost the mission he was on. He learned later that this same nameless soldier he had saved had a terminally ill wife - and Holloway's actions allowed the soldier to be with her for a few more weeks before her passing. Dwelling on this, Holloway sniffed the cold and crisp air, and he didn't even hear the locked door opening at the other side of the rooftop.

He had accessed this building via the safety entrance, and climbed the stairs to the perfect vantage point. Much like the business that once operated there Holloway presumed that the cameras were already offline or deactivated. But the spies of Decima had located him far before then. The raid on the Office Of Special Counsel and the theft of a portion of the 'Research' program granted Decima's tech teams a lot of digital power. Part of that power was the ability to scrub and erase any person from any known databank, a clean slate; and that was exactly the plan for Holloway.

As the door to the rooftop creaked open, Holloway span around and aimed his Beretta 85F at the door quickly. Before he would ever pull on the trigger he was blinded by a laser-sight from one of his assailant's pistols. There were at least six men, maybe seven, that surrounded him. All holding Heckler & Koch Mark 23s, the lead agent had his pistol outfitted with a suppressor and a laser-sight dot that fixed it's mark on Holloway's chest. Each member of the group holding him at gunpoint were dressed in corresponding black suits, with harsh faces and receding hairlines.

The leading agent was recognised by Holloway, he remembered him from the many times he had visited Greer's base across from the Stock Exchange. "Agent Drake, what's going on here-"

"Rooftop clear, Sir - we have the target" Drake spoke into his wrist while still holding the pistol at Holloway's sternum. Hearing the echoes of footsteps coming up the stairs and towards the door, Holloway lowered his weapon.

The other enforcers for Decima seemed to shuffle away as the bearded and high-brow man known as Lambert strolled into view. Wearing his classically tailored evening suit, Lambert shut the door behind him with a slam.

In the cold air, every word from his mouth was a gust of steam. "Hello Leighton" Lambert began.

"Jeremy" Holloway responded, the light from the building behind illuminating all the agents in front of him.

"Greer's been looking for you. Glad to see you're still alive" Jeremy commented.

Standing alone in an exposed space, Holloway checked the windows of the surrounding buildings with his eyes. "I bet you are" He said dryly.

"Surprised you came back to New York City, after leaving Decima, I thought you'd get yourself a cabin in the woods...Montana maybe" Lambert guessed, judging Leighton's expression, he took a step forward with Drake lingering behind his shoulder, weapon still half-raised. "What do you want, Jeremy?" Holloway asked simply.

"Time to come home Leighton, your slate's been wiped clean. Come with me now, and they'll be no more violence" He promised with a newfound threatening tone.

Scoffing, Holloway tensed his fist around the handle of his gun. "You know that'll never happen" Leighton responded strongly.

"Then you have forced my hand-" Jeremy said as he produced a small radio from his coat's pocket, he leaned into the radio and pressed the activation button. "Kill her, and kill him" Lambert pointed to Holloway. Suddenly a crack in the air brought Holloway to the floor - it was a sniper. His own tactic used against him, enraged, he started to fire wildly with his Beretta as he went down to the floor, spraying lead over the Decima Agents, and luckily taking out a couple of them in the process.

Drake pushed Jeremy back, firing weakly at Holloway as they took cover behind a large airing vent instalment. The former contractor had been wounded in the guts, and was limping to escape as the remaining Agents pursued on foot. "Full retrieval at once, Sir" Drake turned back around to his earpiece, but Jeremy placed a hand on his forearm. "There's no need - he can't escape us"

Checking his earpiece, Drake looked up to the next building, a tower office block with a single open window and a flashing mirror-like effect. The reflection of a sniper's scope. Contacting the certain wielder of the Remington Model 700, Drake stood guard near Lambert.

DATE: JUNE 23rd 2008

— **ALIAS - R, DRAKE**

— **ALIAS - D, SCHAFFER**

 **TELECOM INTERCEPT**

/ / / NLU ACTIVE

[R, DRAKE]: DO YOU SEE HIM?

[D, SCHAFFER]: NEGATIVE.

[R, DRAKE]: WELL, GET DOWN HERE AND FIND HIM, HE COULDN'T HAVE GONE FAR.

Going for his own phone, Lambert punched in numbers as Drake's men scrambled to go after the fleeing Holloway. Waiting for a moment, he finally contacted Greer's outside source "Mr Baxter, this is Jeremy Lambert, Greer sent me. I understand that you've recently lost a pair of prototype processing servers? Well, what if I told you that the thief was in your building right now...working overtime. What if...I could provide you with her name?" Lambert offered. The man on the other side of the call agreed, and continued to pledge his company's efforts to the will of Decima.

"The woman who agreed for the theft to take place in the first instance, the woman who is to blame for all of...this. That woman's name is...Elyse Holloway" Lambert revealed.


	26. Chapter 26: Operations

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 14th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

FAC MAIN APLH SC 1 - 16:15:23

On the largest screen in the control room, Samaritan had cued up a news report coming from the Supreme Court in Washington DC. Outside the infamous pillars and gigantic building was a horde of Newscasters and their cameramen, and vans bearing every news-channel logo in the country. For this would be a day long remembered by every self-respecting US citizen.

"We're coming to you live from the Supreme Court in Washington DC. It's a shocking revelation today as a court of five elected officials; Judges, Senators and members of Congress all passed a verdict on the matter of Lars Hugo Rasmussen. The media giant that has been the cause of many controversial topics this month" The brunette newscaster from Channel 26 spoke into the camera.

The feed was being transmitted to one of the command rooms in the Steiner Asylum, where a group of ranking Samaritan agents watched the event unfold. Murrow folded his arms as Thorndyke and Martine stood opposite each other and facing the screen. It pulsed the daytime light into the dark room as the blouse and blazer-wearing reporter continued.

"In a twist of fate, Mr Rasmussen pled the 5th during his testimony and was lifted of all charges - and granted diplomatic immunity by the court on account of his relationship with the Danish Prime Minister - Anders Olander" The reporter maintained. Back in the Steiner, the semi-circle of figures all had different reactions, no doubt that Samaritan had fixed this entire thing to help sway the vote, and get Rasmussen out free. But that wasn't the entire story, as the Danish media kingpin was soon under investigation by the FBI for his seven-billion dollar embezzlement scandal.

Murrow then bowed his head in thought. Since the appearance of Gabriel Hayward, Rasmussen purpose as 'Public Asset' should have already been rebuked. He wasn't one to question the ways and plans if the ASI though, as he simply remained quiet and watched the screen for updates.

Thorndyke stroked his chin while humming, clearly in two minds about the issue. Meanwhile, Martine remained stoic as no more threats to the supreme system's survival had come up, so she was left with nothing to do but wait. Slowly, Murrow pulled himself away from the screen and went back to one of the rows of analysts, checking on their progress with finding Team Machine.

They had been after the same seven targets for nearly three months now, and they still had found nothing. Now they had resorted to analysing and checking over phone calls and Samaritan's voice-recognition software. But that left thousands, perhaps millions of potential matches, and more than a million people to sort through, but for Samaritan tasks like that would take nanoseconds. Martine stepped away from the screen at the front of the room, giving Thorndyke an understanding nod.

She was dressed in a knee-length black satin dress, sleeveless and hugging her frame, she wore shiny stilettos and a silver necklace of arrow-like pendants. Her sunny-blonde hair was fixed into the same bun that it always was, and her makeup was minimal and dark. Stalking behind the analysts, she leant down behind one of them and placed her hand on the desk - watching the scrolling names and locations of phone calls going on every second of every minute. Each worker typed as they wore a fitting headset and microphone.

Martine could still hear the news broadcast going on in front of her as she leant on the technician's desk. "Since the testimony Mr Rasmussen's defence attorney came out with evidence claiming that Stephen Kladivo - a former employee of Rasmussen's and a department manager at the technology company known as Rylatech - Spoofed the transfer in an attempt to frame his former employer" The newscaster reported.

Looking to one of the screens at the side of the room, Martine saw the flashing faces of Team Machine. She had been trying to commit each face to memory, in case she saw them on the street while out on patrol or a mission for Samaritan. Once hearing Greer converse with Mr Flint about using and applying 'human intelligence' methods in the field, that way more Operatives would have the powers of Samaritan with all the human functions that the ASI lacked. But already Samaritan had been using 'God Mode' with Martine and Zachary; who turned out to be the most willing of the AI's servants to try it.

She had remembered their names too (but Lambert had claimed that they could be using complex aliases and other forms of communication) the main four were easy to spot, and took up the top positions on Samaritan's blacklist. Their hobbled and morally-compromised leader was known as Finch, and his brutish helper monkey was Reese. Accompanied by Martine's own soon-to-be quarrel Sameen Shaw and the elusive and devilish 'Root' and her three technically gifted aides. Lambert had a rivalry with one of them; a boy called Casey. In the past, Jeremy had been dispatched to capture him but failed, a mistake Greer still holds him accountable for.

"But many are calling this story a hoax, as Kladivo was arrested yesterday and so far the Police have found no evidence relating to him as the culprit" The female newscaster continued. Samaritan then flickered the image of the news-feed into white pixels as the screen expanded back to the normal highway camera broadcast, feeding the live images of the freeway into the control room. Thorndyke tutted "Unbelievable. Ever since McCourt these politicians are growing ever more brazen, perhaps we should task Garrison again?" He recommended.

Samaritan had already shown it's hand once by manipulating this event and getting Rasmussen off without a hitch, and with further immunity to any legal or judicial action. Strangely, Martine wondered if Rasmussen even knew what had happened to him; he sure as hell wasn't a proxy like Garrison, he was something else. Martine knew about the general silent disdain for him among the Assets, he contributed nothing but money and wealth which Samaritan could already achieve tenfold if it really wanted.

As the analyst to the left of Martine changed his computer screen to a thinner interface, it appeared (according to the screen) that the relevant number program was still operational. Despite all her efforts in the past to attack the ISA, it appeared that Samaritan was keeping up a good face and working with them regardless, as a fleet of terrorist-related names and numbers were shipped off to the ISA HQ at the Pentagon. She watched as the white and black lines containing camera feeds and GPS locations brought up profiles of foreign individuals and branded them as guilty until proven innocent. But that was exactly what Samaritan did.

The beauty (as Greer described it) was unfiltered knowledge, unfettered information, no guess work, no numbers to sort through. Decima had taken the government feeds from the NSA and CIA, and provided the answers to all of Control's questions. All with the promise of deniability, which was soon quietly stripped away when Greer requested that the Executive Decima Board be shut down; so that Samaritan could run itself instead of being held to a council. In the first thirty minutes after the ASI came online, at least four thousand people were killed by Decima Soldiers and Police across the world, and in the first hour, Samaritan began collecting it's 'rational agents' which began with the most loyal and strongest of Decima.

Martine was lucky enough to be apart of that group. Zachary, Drake, Kersey and Cinder all joined her; with Lambert acting as their liaison to Greer and his AI superior. On the day that Samaritan was activated from the Steiner, Martine was away, but she soon learned the truth of this new ruler.

Murrow had gone away from the checking the analyst and was conferring with Thorndyke about any possible threats to eliminate. For now, Rasmussen was a member of the team, so most Assets could put aside their dreams of blasting a suppressed bullet through his face. He was still a billionaire and had better tasks to accomplish for Samaritan than watch some blurry screens all day.

Leaning back from the monitor she watched, Martine saw the largest screen change from a camera feed of a domestic street to a map of the area, and then zoom out from the feeds of New York and cross the Atlantic Ocean, going quickly towards Africa. Murrow turned away from Thorndyke's low-voiced chattering and looked equally curious. Zooming in closer, the ASI honed in on South Africa, and then Johannesburg. Switching to a specific location, Samaritan showed the inside of what looked like an operating room under construction, with one familiar Asset identification reticle.

ACCESSING ALTERNATE FEEDS...

 **ACCESSING SECURE FACILITY...**

LOCATION: JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA

PRECISE LOCATION: 9 MAIN STREET, MEREDALE, JOHANNESBURG 2091

OR562 S - 23:24:51

 **ASSET / / 401**

 **ASSET / / 573**

"Wow...I mean - this is incredible. I feel like Greer has been talking about this forever and now...here it is. An architectural feat" Stewart declared as he surveyed the empty room, he didn't just mention the room itself, but his sweeping statement encompassed the entire underground holding facility that Samaritan had constructed.

A few days after Samaritan was given life and Greer had handed control over to the ASI the program had been focusing on many smaller projects to help keeps it's hold over the world as solid as possible; this base was one of the projects. Stewart was a 30-something promising medical student and former nurse from Washington State, with large spectacles and a bulging head, he wore a plain white long-sleeved shirt and formal patterned sweater as he strolled around the testing chamber.

Accompanied by the dark-suited Lambert, the Englishman walked slowly behind as he felt the curves in the blacked-out windowsill. Freshly shaved and with razor-cut hair, Lambert swung his body back around to see Stewart admiring the ceiling. "Truly...Herculean" He gushed, staring into the lights above them and then viewing a map of the entire web of corridors and rooms on the nearest table.

"This is...this is-" He stammered, pacing the room with the schematics in his hands. Lambert stood and remained in the doorway, a hand propped against the frame, he raised his head slightly "Impressive?" Jeremy suggested.

"Yeah! Yeah...I can work with this" Stewart said with slight hesitation as Lambert cleared his throat. Sensing the pause, the Englishman known to Samaritan as ' **ASSET / / 401** ' walked further into the empty operating room. Stewart glanced elsewhere while his enforcing escort surveyed the two-way mirror at the back of the room. Going back to the plans that he held, Stewart saw a system of dense catacombs built underneath a prison complex, truly an amazing disguise to hold all of Samaritan's own quarries and new recruits (wether willing or unwilling)

Above them would be at least four floor of heavily guarded detention centre, and a fantastic cover for any covert operation that Samaritan planned to run. "It's not exactly what I pictured, but it has possibilities; even unfinished...some of the VR hardware's maintenance and proper ventilation are the main hurdles, but with a series of bypass generators and the right equipment I'm sure I could achieve-" Stewart rambled until Jeremy stepped forward aggressively, silencing him into submission.

"Not until it is finished" Lambert made expertly clear. Nodding, Stewart understood his terms. They had to wait for the entire construction to be cleared before any procedures or projects could begin. Agreeing with him, Stewart stuttered before speaking "Oh - of course, we only want to do it if it's done right" He declared.

But strangely, Jeremy was quiet, he simply huffed and fiddled with the top-knot of his tie, straightening it as Stewart backed away, slipping the paper blueprints into a black folder. "Alright...I'm gonna go to the command room at hallway-six and...okay" He left swiftly after. Walking towards the doors in his informal loafers, Stewart accidentally ran into a emerald-eyed man, middle-aged and balding, he looked akin to Lambert, but with a more mellow and sinister edge. "Oh, hello" Stewart expressed kindly as he shuffled past the man.

"Are you happy with your new playground?" Arquette asked with a sarcastic tone, leering around to Stewart as he passed the doorway.

"Yes, I think it will do nicely" Stewart praised the empty operating room and it's roomy state and airing nature on his way out, astutely ambling down the corridor awkwardly.

Arquette was one of Zachary's thugs, and sent by the wall of a bodyguard himself to oversee security at the Johannesburg Facility. While Lambert was entrusted with command, it was Arquette that would help keep the Assets in and everyone else out. He wore a dark grey uniform like a business-suit, but with a buttoned-up collar and jet-black tie.

He arrived with a group of other middleman-like enforcers, people not as high as Greer's position and not as low as Samaritan's basic soldiers. Arquette and a man called Steele (Or ' **ASSET / / 3152** ') were in charge of the placement and application of the multiple Assets around the foreign medical facility. Initially described as a state-of-the-art torture and interrogation centre, Samaritan had changed it's description to a medical and indoctrination headquarters. Using the South African penitentiary as a front to help ship in medical supplies, fresh clothes and weapons, the Warden of the prison made a quick alliance with Greer if it meant keeping his job.

Tracing the outline of the table with his finger, Arquette turned back around to inform his friend and colleague of the current developments "He's out - no defence, and Lars Rasmussen walks free" Arquette stated. Mellowing out, Lambert stalked the room one more time, and adjusted the silver cuff-links on his shirt. Continuing to update him, Arquette glanced at the man opposite him - up and down once - then he took a breath "Senator Garrison did his part, exactly like we told him too, but many in the ranks are sceptical of his intentions" Arquette alluded.

"Greer? Who's intentions?" Lambert asked for some clarity, and Arquette was more than happy to provide the answers as the ceiling lights flickered slightly underneath them. "Rasmussen. After the Goa embezzlement scandal Greer tells me that Samaritan is...reconsidering it's public assets position. He's too much trouble than he's worth" Arquette divulged. Folding his arms and leaning on the side of the table, Jeremy crossed his feet as he thought and adjusted his watch.

But what could they do with him? Rasmussen controlled an empire of a business, hundreds of enforcers and a huge public image; he couldn't disappear from the face of the earth without causing a fuss like the most of their targets. His disappearance after such a massive uproar and global upset would make an even bigger mess, as the IOB and the CIA-SAD would be hunting any leads and it could perhaps lead them to the remnants of Decima, or even the Steiner Asylum. "Then what do we do with him?" Lambert thought aloud.

Arquette scoffed "For the moment; nothing. But we have Samaritan's confidence, and something far more valuable" He was right, ever since Gabriel Hayward, Samaritan had been using its longest serving Assets and entrusting them with the safety of it's projects. But if Samaritan wanted to remove Rasmussen it would need to set up someone in his place first.

Buttoning up his blazer, Lambert crossed the room and muttered loud enough for Arquette to here him "We'll need a plan - we can't just leave it to The Correction" He said honestly.

"Samaritan framed this Rylatech Manager; Kladivo. But he won't plead guilty, not in a thousand years, soon enough he'll become a target too" Arquette said hypothetically. Moving down the hallway on other business, Jeremy cast his voice down the hallway "If Kladivo does end up with a target on his back - make sure you send Martine"

"Martine? Rousseau?" Arquette questioned loudly and arrogantly. Lambert was becoming quite fond of the young woman, her spirit and wit, and the loyalty inside her.

"She's a gifted woman, and The Hague doesn't produce slackers" He declared.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: SEPTEMBER 28th 2004

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, NETHERLANDS

PRECISE LOCATION: THE HAGUE MARRIOTT HOTEL

BALKON CAM ACHT - 09:19:41

Opening the door into the premier suite, a dark-clothed Decima Scout and enforcer entered the drab and empty room. No suitcases, no clothes or bags, the television hadn't even been turned on. The Scout walked up the balcony doors and was let through by a pale and hulking figure. On the balcony were three men, all nearly identical, dressed in matching funeral-suits with long ties, one sat on a metal chair while the other two stood.

The Scout spoke officially "We've set up a perimeter around the park, and Mr Holloway has sent specific instructions not to interfere until his man has-"

The most brazen of the three men (the one that sat on the chair) tutted under his breath, and silenced the scout "They'll be no more instructions from Mr Holloway; we're here under orders from the Director of Operations himself" Drake disciplined.

As beside him, the stoic and calm Bryant held a large camera, zooming into the park to watch their target; a twenty-something brunette woman. Currently employed by the U.N. and the focus of Holloway's recruitment scheme, the three men were dispatched secretly by Greer to seal the woman's fate. Holding a flip-phone, the gigantic Zachary lingered at the edge of the balcony while mumbling in a low growl. Drake got back to his work; sharpening a gleaming serrated hunting dagger which he worked on just outside his lap.

Three of Greer's most trusted, Bryant was one of Lambert's men, and Drake and Zachary were operatives from the Director of Operations's personal guard. Stepping back from the balcony's edge, Zachary slipped the phone into his pocket and watched the outline of the park alongside the ever-calm Bryant. They had been tailing a drop-off by one of Holloway's fixers, meant to push the woman in question to her next destination. Decima's secret contact called 'D-CRYPT' had been handling communication. But Greer decided that a more personal touch was needed.

The plan of Decima's recruiter was more than complicated, but his fixer was hired by the usual monicker of 'Parnassus' a black-hat hacker that has a ring of informants and DarkNet contacts. He was hired to give her everything she needed to leave The Netherlands and never return; a whole new life. Something she'd need in the coming months, as long as Holloway's plan panned out.

With some digging, they had found the woman's phone number from the U.N.'s records, so it was easy to send a message once the drop-off was done. Their Scout (A constantly bereaved man called Schaffer) excused himself from the balcony, and stood in the apartment with the rest of the squadron. Comprised of at least seven other soldiers assigned to Decima's security division. The incoming breeze of fresh air was warm, as beams of sunlight glowed on Bryant's dark skin, he recoiled his head from the glare of the camera's lens "She's received the package, and Holloway's CI has fled the scene" He reported.

Zachary advised him to wait, carefully inputting numbers into his phone. Drake wiped down the sides of his blade as he watched. Drake was a physically fit man of twenty-nine, he had a stocky upper-body and attuned reflexes, the traits befitting of a former Navy Seal and a combat specialist. Bryant was clearly ex-military too, but more refined. Watching from behind his camera lens, Bryant huffed "What's this girl's name again?" He asked, pulling his head away to look at Zachary.

"Martine - that's how she prefers to be addressed anyway...her real name is-" Zachary was cut off by Bryant's phone buzzing and shaking on the metal table next to Drake. Raising his eyebrows sarcastically, Drake leant towards the phone and picked it up. Seeing the name 'Lambert' he passed it over to Bryant who took it with a stern and yet welcoming inflection. Stepping back into the apartment, he left the advanced Nikon camera on the table.

Greer's bodyguard had finished on his phone and his thumb hovered over of the buttons. Gesturing the camera, Drake took the hint. Zachary wasn't someone you'd easily disobey, even with an indirect order. He snatched the camera from the table and jogged over to the side of the balcony and leaned over, pressing the viewing lens to his eye, he saw a smartly-dressed cinnamon-brown haired woman. She wore a slim fitting blue shirt, black denim jeans, some unworn black ankle boots, a thin grey lace scarf that hung low around her neck and a padded leather jacket. "She's our mark?" Drake said, doubting it heavily, but alas Zachary made a noise indicating he was correct.

KAMER VIJFENTWINTIG CAMERA TWEE - 09:20:59

Pacing up and down next to the clean and untouched bed, Bryant held the phone to his ear and made a noise of assurance. "We have Holloway's recruit in our sights, Mr Lambert. You can inform the Operations Director that we are on schedule" He appeased.

Lambert's voice was clean and crisp, young and spritely "Splendid. I captured the Newport girl in Colorado just as requested, and we've handed her over to Greer's Warden at Rikers Island" Jeremy recounted proudly. Surrounded by the main muscle of Decima, Bryant was forced to make unwanted eye-contact with clone-like men. A group of unfeeling and faceless drones, all wearing sharply tailored clothes and bald heads, the leader of which was a Decima Supervisor called Callahan.

Newport was the designated hacker of a particular terrorist cell that Decima had been manipulating. Led by a madman known as 'Venator' the misguided group had fled from one mass-murdering dictator to the other. Now they once again took orders from 'Parnassus' and were tasked with taking out the figureheads of Decima Technologies itself. An impossible task as the Decima Board created the entire scenario on Holloway's request; to lead in the manipulation of his latest mark - a highly promising U.N. Criminal Investigator.

"The information that Holloway's CI gave her will take her to Newport, then she's in prime position for phase two" Bryant said with a harsh growl. Holloway's scheme had several moving parts - too many for Bryant's taste. One if those parts involved the manipulation and destruction of emotion and leaving all that the recruit lived behind. After hours and hours of research, it became apparent that this woman had no family, only one known fiancé that still lived in New York; the place of her birth.

"It'll be difficult to cover up an attempt on her fiancé's life, even if it is to prove a point" Bryant continued, airing his grievance to his superior. All of this was the recruiter's idea, and it was the soldier's hands that had to get dirty because of it.

On the other side if the static-ridden phone, Lambert chuckled to himself, as he bustled through what sounded like a busy street or station. Simply, Decima's Chief of Staff had one recommendation. "It's easy, use Parnassus to hire a second-rate Hitman, and make sure that the boyfriend meets with an unfortunate...car accident, from which he will not recover" Lambert said morbidly.

BALKON CAM ACHT - 09:22:16

Back outside on the balcony, the wind had slowed down as Drake surveilled the recruitment's target. Still waiting with a phone in his hand, Zachary seemed like he was waiting for something as the target walked around the park with a package in her hand. Looking with a squint to the outline of the park, Zachary checked for any cameras around on lampposts or near ponds. As the glass-door slid open again and Bryant joined them, he fiddled with Drake's prized knife that lay in it's sheath on the table.

Drake checked her position again as Zachary asked him too. She had cleared the next lamppost after receiving the package and was moving West, towards a large stream leading to a lake-like pond. "There's our window" Zachary muttered, thumbing his keypad at once. Observing the actions of the woman below on the concrete, it took a few minutes before she reached for her phone and at the same time, Zachary turned around to answer a call. It wasn't the same as what went on in the park that Drake watched, it was clear that Zachary was reporting to someone while the woman read a SMS message.

In a sudden burst of rage, the woman's polite and dumbed-down attitude changed into one of anger as she looked at the phone and hurled it in one throw towards the pond. It went inside the water with a splash as Drake's mouth opened slightly. As she strutted away, he could barely watch the rest of the woman's actions as she walked into the distance.

"Yes, Sir. She's received the message; loud and clear I assume...of course Mr Greer, I'll see to it that she finds her way to us...perhaps using some of Holloway's older recruits?" Zachary suggested, to a chuckle masked in static from across the phone.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 14th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

FAC MAIN APLH SC 07 - 22:55:12

 **ASSET / / 029**

 **ASSET / / 434**

 **ASSET / / 1561**

 **ASSET / / 1599**

 **ASSET / / 580**

Samaritan catalogued a gathering of it's Assets from one of the technician's screens at the side of the control room back at the Steiner. Around the largest screen, a troop of loyal soldiers to Samaritan had gathered to stand on security duty as the Primary Asset and Admin was set to return with a guest. Someone from the FBI would be arriving shortly on Greer's recommendation. Hoping to allow Samaritan the access to the WHO and the NHC's data. While the NSA feeds could be granted from Fort Meade with a few calls from Senator Garrison, the health and well-being of the American population wouldn't be pilfered as easily, even by an ASI.

So as a bored Martine stood on ceremony alongside a line of other operatives, she held a emotionless and forward-facing glare as she stood at the shoulder of Murrow, who was designated the spokesperson for the Assets as Mr Flint was dealing with business in Shanghai. At Murrow's right shoulder was Barrett, and then Kersey and Sykes has also been assigned to join them. Wearing their bests suits (even Martine had hers freshly pressed) they lined up in front of the main doors to the command centre as all the analysts had been removed from their stations.

Hearing commotion, Murrow straightened up as Martine did the same. Bringing her maroon red lips together, she held her head high as her blonde bun of hair was as taught as a bowstring at the back of her head, dragging back other other fibre on her scalp. Kersey adjusted his watch-band as the doors swung open. It was Greer indeed, wearing a pinstripe blazer and matching tie, he ambled towards the Agents as they all bowed immediately and simultaneously. "Welcome back, Mr Greer" Murrow announced.

Behind Greer was a sharp-faced man, clean and smart with pointy ears and curving lips. With silver hair much like Samaritan's Admin; he had a file under his arm and carried a briefcase in his hand. While being escorted by two other Assets - strongmen in black shirts with sidearms at their hips - they were quickly dismissed to the background by Greer's waving hand.

"May I introduce FBI Special Agent LeRoux, he's come to check on our...progress" Greer phrased oddly while Sykes raised an instinctive eyebrow. Putting his briefcase down carefully on a table where the analysts would have worked, LeRoux took a breath. "So this is it, huh? God's eye...big brother...it's beautiful" He complimented, looking straight past the row of Assets and fixating on Samaritan's main wall-mounted monitor and projection screen.

LeRoux put his hands into his pockets as he shuffled towards the screen, watching a domestic feed from a weather monitoring camera, he was obviously marvelling at the processing speeds and interface of the AI. Soon enough (and like with everyone who saw Samaritan in the flesh) the questions began "How does it operate? Who controls it?" LeRoux started with. "It controls itself. But know this; Samaritan cannot be bought. It cannot be bribed, it will never sleep with it's Secretary or raise the price of petrol, it's decisions are based on pure logic. Now that's a leader deserving of our vote" Greer preached.

Impressed, LeRoux inspected the Assets. "Are these a squad of your Agents?" He asked next, to which Greer made a noise of denial, quickly informing the middle-aged man that these were - in fact- Samaritan's Agents. Once again complimenting the system, LeRoux arched his back when meeting Martine as his tongue touched the tip of his top lip. "And you are?" LeRoux questioned, as she was the only female selected for the display.

Martine kept her northern American accent, trying to purge the Bronx New Yorker inside of her "Martine Rousseau; Squad leader and high-level Operative" She said firmly. "Is that so..." LeRoux mumbled, moving on over to shake Barrett's hand and give a businessman's nod to Murrow. His hair glistened from the main screen's light as he went back to Greer's side. Removing the file from under his arm, LeRoux pulled out a thin document, and passed it over to Samaritan's Admin.

Sealed with a classified FBI and SEC sticker and stamp, the docket was well-received by Greer, who smiled warmly. Watching as the wall-mounted viewing-screen changed to a opulent mansion, Martine sensed what this would be about before Greer or his new FBI traitor-friend could say a word. This was the house of Lars Rasmussen, a figure of much contention and recent controversy.

As Samaritan watched the cameras from from the outside gate, Greer read up and down the paper before humming. Due to Samaritan's recent distrust of it's 'Public Asset' an ulterior motive was to secure any information from the global intelligence community. Since Rasmussen had scrubbed his family and history, the evidence of his origins was almost unknown, apart from his place of birth. So in exchange for Samaritan's wisdom, LeRoux had been asked to collect any relevant information on the media tycoon.

LeRoux admitted to finding this in an office of one of his fired colleagues, it was brief, but it was all that they had for now. "An official SEC fatality report; on a Investigative officer called Douglas Rasmussen"

To that - Greer gives his trademark chuckling breath. Barrett snickered as his boss replied "A relation perhaps?" surmised Greer.

Showing him the rest of the file, LeRoux went further into detail "He was arrested following a short-sale on Tritak Energy, and later killed by mysterious circumstances...I thought their could be a connection possibly leading to Zenith-Media Corp" He let the man opposite know.

Thinking on the matter, Greer folded the file back up and put it onto the table. He suddenly eyed Murrow with deadly conviction. "Leave us" He commanded. Murrow did as he was told immediately, taking Barrett and Kersey with him - with Martine and Sykes following behind. Stepping forward further towards the centre screen, LeRoux heard the last of Samaritan's soldiers leave the room as the door slammed shut. Now alone with the seventy-four year old and an all-powerful AI, he watched in awe as the camera-feed showed on the screen faded to white pixels and the thin black bars moved out of frame. Then a red triangle and black line appeared in the sea of white.

Speaking openly, Greer addressed the screen "How should we proceed?" He began simply. On the other side of the screen and watching through a small implanted webcam - Samaritan recognised it's faithful Admin - but not the man next to him. Scrolling through a short profile of a ranking FBI Agent, Samaritan efficiently opened a box for his details, and highlighted some key factors for his recruitment to itself.

 **RECRUIT**

NAME: LEROUX, MARTIN

 **OUTLIER TRAITS**

-130 IQ

-BLOOD TYPE: O POSITIVE

-FBI SPECIAL AGENT

- **PROPENSITY FOR VIOLENCE**

EVALUATING_

Keeping the file active and hovering next to his observation reticle, Samaritan's screen showed a line of straight text after a few milliseconds of consideration.

CONDUCT_FURTHER_INVESTIGATION

Greer pursed his lips outwards "Then I wonder if our...fine media baron has become more of problem than an asset, and one that needs to be eliminated" He proposed. Samaritan's three little dots blinked in succession, then produced an answer.

NOT_YET

He took that as the final word on the matter, brushing his blazer down a little. LeRoux watched with smiling arrogance as the interface's blinking dots cycled with Greer asked a strange and cryptic question - at least it was cryptic to LeRoux himself. "And what about Mr Finch and his friends?" He wondered patiently.

INVESTIGATION_ONGOING

"Well...we'll have to keep trying" Greer assured the system. Turning back to the FBI mole, the elderly man produced a small envelope. Black and expertly sealed, Greer held it out towards LeRoux. "Should you ever find yourself needing us again, we have friends in very high places" He said subtly. In response, LeRoux took the envelope slowly and with a breath of realisation.

Inside the envelope was a new selection of payment cards, a new name and profile, clean credit cards, a new job and assignment from Samaritan. Of course he could remain in his current position, but it was hard pressed among the ranks of the Assets to find someone who wasn't once part of a intelligence community or army division. Thanking Greer for the opportunity, LeRoux eyed the small webcam on top of the massive wall-mounted screen as he stepped away, and followed the Admin out of the room.

Just before he left, Samaritan's UI produced a strange mechanical sound as a bar of red and white text flashed up above Martin LeRoux's head. Buffering for a few seconds, it made the sound of confirmation as the bar stuck above his circular identification reticle and followed him wherever he went.

 **ASSET / / 810**


	27. Chapter 27: Holloway

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: JUNE 12th 2008

LOCATION: Kehrsatz, BERN, SWITZERLAND

PRECISE LOCATION: FLUGHAFEN BERN

HANGAR 3 SEC 02 - 19:45:58

Outside the doors, the hangar was a cocoon of silver steel, the walls so elegantly curved and wrapping around to create a large inner space. The tall stretching beams supported so many windows around the curving roof, letting in so much light that in the daytime it is as bright as any summertime day. They arrived at noon, and the blackened 2007 Bentley Continental pulled up to the doors silently.

The large hulking gates of metal began to part slowly, they made screams and whirs as the car stopped just outside. Parallel to the hangar was a slick private jet, a LearJet model 60. Painted in a grey and black with long wings and a modern design.

The aircraft hangar was the only thing around the airport, as far as the eye could see. It's chrome and shining dome-like roof projected up from the grey plains of the city into the blue like some alien ship. Inside was only dust and the echo of footsteps. In the shafts of light that penetrated the tall windows the dust swirled near the implanted computer servers. The wind whistled through the front and rear openings of the automatic doors.

It seemed unfinished, like it had been built for a purpose and then abandoned, yet it wasn't that old. There was no decay or rust on the metal beams and no cracks in the concrete floor. Set up as a temporary base for the Shadow Army's technical team and elite squads, Ernst had spent a long time salvaging parts from high-tech computers and instructing combat groups to steal from companies like Rylatech and Hydralcorp, all to use in his massive conglomerate of servers and blinking processors.

Pulling to a stop, Chekhov's driver (an Ex-CIA Agent called Packer) got out and marched around to the door, he opened it with a stern efficiency. Stepping out slowly, Chekhov dipped his head to thank his trooper and carried on to the hangar.

The retrofitted base was the handiwork of many Shadow Army engineers, private contractors and friends of Ernst. The doors came to a clunking stop as Ernst Bortnikov hurried behind his master. Packer closed the door with a slam and followed at a safe distance of three feet or so.

Inside the metal cage was a selection of flashy hardware servers stolen by Ernst's crews. With modern and western-based names like 'Sabre Blade 2347' and 'Dell PowerEdge SC1425' they bordered the walls of the hangar. Operated by only a few men, Ernst had been using them as secret weapons to spy on American activity. Walking into the hangar, the nearest guard bowed at the sight of their leader. "Mr Chekhov, I've had the plane fuelled and ready, it should be prepped for takeoff." The guard reported. Passing him, Chekhov removed his fake non-prescription glasses with a swipe of his hand as he approached one of Ernst's workers.

"The Rylatech Servers have been moved per instructions, they'll arrive here within the next hour-" Chekhov told the technician, he then span on his heel, looking to Ernst with a strangely warm smile "My friend, I need you to remain here, I'll return to Oregon with my staff." He said, placing his hand on the older man's shoulder. Ernst wasn't in fact his real name - just an alias he had picked out - but that didn't matter as the German-Russian still expressed some caution.

"Alone? Sir, you know every three-letter-agency is searching the globe for you. You go back so soon and it'll risk everything we've fought for." Bortnikov fretted.

Relaxing his shoulders, his leader sighed "I need you to stay and watch over this Tech...and to protect Ms Newport." He instructed. He needed Ernst to keep the propagation module for as long as possible, he didn't want to tip off the American intelligence community that Barnett had betrayed them. The module would come in handy against the more aggressive agencies, so modifying it would be the ideal task for Bortnikov's team of hackers. A team that Newport needed to join.

To the side of Chekhov's shoulder was his group of guards. Personal protectors from all walks of life. Most of them had long gashes and burn marks across their faces, scars just like Chekhov had. They were his security team, meant to accompany him everywhere.

The base in Oregon had been their secret headquarters for a while now, first bought by the Russian and one of his former KGB snipers; a cold man called Janus. At the back of the hangar, Chekhov's Captain awaited his orders.

The Captain of his personal guard and another former CIA watchdog, Tobias Dearborn. Dark skinned with thin black hair, he wore a combat vest atop of a plain and formal grey shirt and black tie. A brown leather holster held his selection of handguns as he pushed a figure towards Chekhov. Walking to the centre of the hangar and away from the technician's workstations, Dearborn held the shoulder of a bagged and tied individual.

Knocked to his knees, the figure was Male, and restrained by a couple of Dearborn's thugs.

The Russian approached with a sneer "Mr Dearborn, who is this?" He inquired. Huffing, the bagged figure swayed a little, and was pulled back by the soldiers at his sides. He had a black bag over his head, and wore a bloodied shirt and torn shoes, with bruised arms that were zipped behind his back. Grunting, Dearborn pulled off the sack.

"Allow me to introduce to you Hans Wagner, Agent of the BND." Dearborn smiled. German intelligence. Most likely a target that flew too close to the sun and got captured or found by the various forces under Chekhov's command. Inspecting the man, he had a fixed glare and a forward-facing nose, like a sharp point. His face was specked in blood and bleeding at the nose, Wagner didn't say a word. "I think he's shy." Dearborn prodded at him.

Humming and stroking his chin, Vladislav gestured to the guards "How did you find him?" He asked plainly. The tallest and oldest guard replied for the both of them "We picked him up outside Berlin, he was looking into one of Janus's guys - so we removed him. But thought it best to keep him alive for leverage." The guard spat.

What leverage? The BND and FIS wouldn't deal with them. To the rest of the world, they were terrorists. But to the few that supported them, they were fighting for a better world. Chekhov mulled over the matter, if the BND knew about Agent Wagner's capture, then they'd already be onto them. He couldn't account for loose ends. "The next time you're planning on abducting a member of Germany's federal intelligence agency, you tell me." Vladislav made clear. The guards gave embarrassed nods.

"Put him on the plane." Chekhov said with a growl. The guards did as they were told, grabbing Wagner by the arms and hauling him to his feet. Pulling him towards the private jet, Chekhov went to speak to his guard captain "Those men...their names?"

"Conrad and Sokolov, they're my best. If they made a mistake-" Dearborn informed his leader but he didn't get chance to finish. Chekhov silenced him with a step forward and a hushed voice. "If they kidnapped a foreign intelligence agent then it may spark an investigation, an investigation that could lead them back to us. It's a liability keeping him alive...and keeping them alive." Chekhov looked around, then back to the two guards.

Dearborn understood. But he couldn't just kill them here, he knew they were heading back to their main hideout in Oregon, and killing three men in transit would just be too messy. Luckily, his boss already had a solution. "Look - we'll take a stop in New York on the way, I'll buyout a warehouse, and we can do it there. No problem, no witnesses, and we'll kill two birds with one stone." He noted.

That would be much easier than Dearborn's plan. As Conrad and Sokolov pulled Agent Wagner towards the plane's extending boarding ramp, they hauled him up the stairs in a brutal fashion. After dealing with that problem, the path to Oregon should be much clearer. Nazarov had already used this base for years, and it's current castellan was Janus, who was a much better fit than his hot-headed lieutenant, a chipper and macabre man called Fredrick.

Now on his way back to his plane, Chekhov dipped his head in a nod to Ernst, who gave a sympathetic smile and followed him, with a phone-wielding attendant keeping close. Dearborn adjusted his holster and kept near to his employer.

"Those blueprints you wanted me to send...I sent them. It's quite good, I'll give Barnett that much - but some of it I'd have to discard." Ernst noted while walking alongside Chekhov towards the plane. Sighing, he was passed a phone by his attendant "Excuse me Sir, the prototypes have arrived" Stepping away, Ernst was taken to the front of the hangar by some vest-wearing troopers.

Going up the stairs, Dearborn went up behind the Russian "Are we really letting Ernst take over our operations here? I don't want to come back to a Thailand-style karaoke party." The chief bodyguard scorned. Although Ernst did have some odd tastes in pop culture and style, his skills in computers, technology, history and philosophy helped the Shadow Army a great deal.

Personally, Chekhov didn't have any worry that Ernst's control over the Bern headquarters would shift things. He was a perfectly capable servant, and despite being a more outgoing member of Chekhov's circle of trust; there was a trusting relationship between them. "He's not a loose cannon, we can trust him. He's served many clandestine groups before us." Chekhov reminded his Captain.

Jogging up the stairs, the Russian ducked under the plane's doorway and was lead to the cabin by the head of his security, Dearborn. As Agent Wagner was stored at the back of the plane with the two idiotic guards, it was requested that Dearborn remain at the front of the plane as the ramp folded in on itself and the doors shut with a upwards sliding motion.

HANGAR 3 SEC 05 - 19:51:30

With his hands in his coat's pockets, Ernst saw the wide and bird-like shadow of Chekhov's jet fly over them. He turned to see it's flight path into the clouds while his aide dealt with the incoming Rylatech shipment. The industrial-sized servers arrived two at a time, all coming in unmarked trucks. His helper was busy dealing with a shady delivery-driver who carried a stack of paperwork.

A perk of Newport's cyber-attacks was being able to transfer the different systems, so they could easily create a shipment to be sent immediately to them. So that's what they did. The Venator did the same thing - only he was contacted by a mysterious third party who seemed to already have the connections to get him everything he wanted.

Ernst disliked Nazarov, considering him too rash and overzealous, too reliant on other means to succeed. Wether that be Newport or his group of die-hard sycophants. Chekhov ran a better team, he was a strengthened by his allies, and was an amazing tactical mind all by himself.

Signing the paper on the clipboard, Ernst's aide passed it back to the Rylatech delivery driver. "And we're sure this can't be traced back to us?" Ernst expressed, looking the grey overall-wearing driver up and down.

The driver was a stubble-faced and grimacing man, who reacted with a deep scoff "Don't worry Mr Bortnikov, for all the UPS know these servers were sent to a manufacturing plant in Oslo." He made known. Nodding, Ernst coughed and flattened the edges of his blazer with his hands. He had his aide checked around the truck, and as he came around from the back he patted the side of the vehicle twice. "Yeah; we're good here" He expressed.

So, that was all. The driver took the clipboard and tipped his hat, getting back into his vehicle, Ernst watched as the truck pulled away with a burst of smoke. Tilting his head, his aide presented him with a satellite-phone, chunky, it's screen had a set of green tiles and a blinking red dot, a dot that started to grow further away from the vibrant green tiles.

"We'll keep it active for another 48-hours, then once the transceiver shuts down, I'll have your men retrieve it." The aide said with confidence. Tutting, Ernst shifted his torso back to his assistant. "Our men, Mr Laszlo, this is a democracy after all." Ernst corrected.

Next a set of four guards arrived to help bring the servers into the hangar and wire them to the others that Bortnikov had set up. As they went behind the men who pulled the servers, Ernst's aide brought up a good point in their conversation "You're aware that as soon as Chekhov sets foot on US soil he'll be a target, even more so with a Agent of the BND in his possession. The CIA will be all over them." Laszlo noted.

Going back into the hanger, Packer and his men had swept the perimeter and now all command of the Shadow Army's forces in Bern was left to Ernst's wishes. Admiring the servers as his group of techie's got to work, the German-Russian with fluent English decided to unhook his laptop and walk it to a separate table. "With Barnett's module, we now have the tools to fake any transfer and crack any spyware...so why don't we run a Beta Test?" Ernst snickered as he opened his computer back up and grabbed the module from his briefcase.

He started to code and type like lightning, quickly, he created a program that would run through the databases of US-based technology firms, that would soon link somehow into the government's operations. Finding the CIA intranet, Ernst plugged in the module and smiled with a huff of air as he sat down on a spindly chair. "I'm just coding a little something to keep these CIA grunts occupied." He ventured while typing furiously.

Thinking on his feet, he pulled a nameless account of some numbers-guy in the US, and within seconds he used the material on the propagation module to frame him for selling hardware to the Chinese. Very sensitive US hardware. The module gave the user access to countless intranets and the larger spaces beyond them. Including the ability to forge transactions and plant digital evidence on subjects. It wouldn't be long before the CIA found this certain innocent rat.

"There. That'll put them off the scent for a while." Ernst went away from his laptop and checked another feature on the satellite phone. A flight-tracking function. Watching Chekhov's plane head towards the Atlantic Ocean.

Although Ernst couldn't see him, his assistant Laszlo remained at his shoulder, looking at the tracker too. "Who else here knows about the flight to Oregon?" Laszlo asked with sinister intent.

"Newport, some of my men and Agent Packer." Ernst responded as he collected up his laptop and stood from his chair. He knew that the details of Chekhov's return had to be kept quiet, while he trusted his own subordinates and Packer, Georgia was a different matter entirely.

Laszlo was growing more concerned with Georgia, who (to the untrained eye) looked like she was disobeying orders by staying here. But by staying in a neutral land, she was hiding out perfectly. Laszlo wore a dark undershirt and a pale sweater above it, his skin was a motley pink, and blotched was spots. "She's a risk, her history with Decima is too dangerous." Laszlo implied, but he was right.

During Tarasovich's campaign, Georgia made a critical weakness that lead her to capture by Decima and imprisonment. That was during the time when all the Shadow Army was a fundamentalist terrorist faction, striking out from the government and starting to weaponise against big and private businesses.

Under Chekhov they had become much more refined. "I suggest removing her." Laszlo declared. In response, Ernst turned to him sharply, which made his aide step back, raising his hands slightly "It's not beyond him. Remember Moscow? What mercy did Chekhov have for his own colleagues?"

None. Laszlo was right and Ernst knew that. But he couldn't give the order, despite the command that his leader had given him. "We have to take action, either bring her in, or let her make another foolish mistake that could bring us all down." Laszlo expressed.

Turning back around, Bortnikov eyed the steely Agent Packer across the hangar. Packer's troops were still busy loading his servers into the mainframe, using the advice of the more technologically-advanced staff members to know where to place each node and position every wire.

Thinking on the issue, Ernst came to a conclusion. Newport was a loose cannon, a wild card that couldn't be predicted. So, taking his first action, Ernst gave the order to his aide. "Bring her in, alive and unharmed. I wish to speak with her."

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 15th 2014

LOCATION: JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA

BAR W CAM 02 - 19:05:12

As a car passed at the dimmed window, the bar inside curved into the room, a sleek and modern atmosphere around the barely lit room. The windows looked like diamonds of lead panes, letting through only a trickle of the shallow light of street-lamps. The smell has changed with the food, the stench of pricey-fish and high-commodity Sushi now filled the air.

The people that surrounded the bar were all high-class, with the perfume that clung to their clothing, skin and furniture alike. This establishments is more like a restaurant now - all clean with waiting staff - but at the Sushi bar it took on a quietness, a gentleness that many places in Johannesburg didn't have.

Being passed a square-shaped plate of Sushi, the Samaritan Agent known as Stewart bowed respectfully to the chef. "Arigatogosaimasu. Oishii desu ne..." Stewart expressed while leaning forward and clasping his hand together after the first plate of Sushi. Sat on the tall bar-stool chairs, the emerald-eyed figure of Arquette watched his every move.

Outside, Lambert made a call on a secure line while the other Assets controlled the area around him.

Arquette wore a dark red button-up and quilted black blazer, while Stewart wore a grey pocket-square with his suit-jacket and checkered tie. Still having his blunt and thick glasses attached to his head, Stewart sipped from his tall glass of water before giving a warm smile to the chef across the bar.

Next to his water, he had a small and stout glass of whisky, while Arquette was indulging in a shot of Sake rice-wine.

The chef behind the Sushi bar returned the bow as Stewart picked up his second fish and rice concoction to place it gingerly into his mouth...until he stopped. From the bottom of the bar, a barrage of shouting began. Distracted, Stewart leaned forward again to look down the restaurant. At the the side of the Sushi bar was an American businessman, dressed in a badly made and cheap suit, he was constantly yelling into his phone "Listen, Sydney, he can't get that job - Because he can't do that job!" He stormed.

"Ashton is a goldfish trying to swim laps with a speedboat, it ain't gonna happen!" The American broker yelled. Sighing, Arquette simply shrugged at it. Samaritan can't intervene here; it's a simply a rude man in a public place, it happened all the time.

But Stewart wasn't going to have it, he corrected his glasses and gave the man his attention "A cellphone. In this temple." Stewart grumbled. But Arquette soon realised that he wasn't focused on the phone anymore, as the techie's gaze was now fixed on the shouting man's accomplice. Dipping an assortment of Sushi items into the ginger soy sauce at the side of his plate to an almost offensive degree, Stewart repulsed in his chair.

Suddenly, raising his voice, he hah something to declare to the entire bar "You don't put ginger on the fish." He stated. Now locking eyes with the Broker's friend, the man put down his chopsticks and raised an eyebrow. "It's supposed to clean the palette between pieces, not drown it out. It's already precisely sauced. It doesn't need a soy bath." Stewart crisply remarked.

Now mocking him, the two bankers chuckled to each other "Chill out, Mr Miyagi." They joked. But it was clear the Stewart was in no such mood. Cocking his head to the side, he blinked and considered his options. Arquette was about to touch his shoulder just as he let loose his retort. "No. No I won't, you fucking heathens." He said surprisingly. Now the entire restaurant had been reduced to the same silence that encompassed the Sushi bar.

The original businessman had put his phone down in the awkward silence as Stewart shook his head in disbelief.

He closed his fist and pointed a finger towards the mild-mannered chef "This man is an artist. He had to spend ten years learning how to make the Tamagoyaki - The Egg - The Egg!" Stewart slammed his fist on the table to show his point.

"Now, your expense accounts don't entitle you to fuck his art up the ass!" He hollered. Now enraged, the two men stood from their seats and prepared to meet Stewart in a brawl.

Oddly prepared, Samaritan's medical assistant stood up too, removing his cloth and pocket-square, he went for his holster holding a SAI-Glock 34.

About to unsheathe the pistol, he was stopped by a quick and slender hand touching his arm "Everything alright here, Stewart?" A female voice directed towards them. Arquette stood from his seat and fastened his blazer together. Now three-on-two, the mystery woman was Mia Xavier, a businesswoman and CFO for the LHR News Group and the Zenith-Media Corporation.

"Let's settle everyone, keep steady now." Arquette advised, a little out of character for him. Mia was incredibly straight-haired, with a high fringe and a black turtleneck dress that only reached just the bottom of her knees, from there she wore slim heels and a thin grey blazer sequinned in studs.

The two stock-brokering aggressors halted the moment they saw Mia. "Hold up - wait." The first man said, he looked like a squeezed peach, pale and squashed, he retreated a few steps back to his bustier colleague, who had now clenched his fists for a fight. "That's Mia Xavier. Zenith-Media Corp." The peach-like man slurred, walking away. His friend was going to follow as Stewart gave him a strangely effective death-stare.

"On behalf of Baylor-Zimm, I apologise for the disrespect." The aggressive broker said before gathering his things and fleeing the restaurant with a huff of breath.

Visibly shocked and impressed, Arquette took Stewart by the shoulder and ushered him back to the Sushi bar, Mia saddling up with a stool next to them. Nodding to the chef, Mia flicked her hand in a forgiving manner "Gomenasai, Kare wa ijouni jonestuteki desu." She said fluently with a bow of her head. The Chef nodded and mumbled a reply, before leaving with a entourage of other white-capped cooks.

Arquette leaned around in his chair, as the restaurant returned to normal and the conversational white-noise started up again. "I'm sorry you saw that; a bit too revealing..." Stewart apologised, trailing off.

"On the contrary, I loved it.." Mia declared in her half British and half American voice, which gave her a perfect mix of strength and brains. She had a high brow and strong face, symmetrical features on a tanned complexion.

Interlocking her hands in front of her, she eyed Arquette with an intellectual energy "That's passion. I was just sweet-talking a Captain of the NIS when I see you giving that jerk a schooling, imagine my surprise when I find it to be Lambert's best man." Mia laughed.

She knew Jeremy? Speak of the devil - soon enough, the navy-suited Englishman swaggered in, sliding his phone into his pocket. He greeted Mia, who stood and placed a kind kiss on his cheek. Arquette raised his eyebrows to that, and Stewart expressed a small "Woah." under his breath, with his eyes wide. "I hope I'm not interrupting things Mia, I had no idea you were in town." Lambert voiced smoothly.

"Are you joking? I hardly recognised you. You've shaved Jeremy, and you're not wearing your holster." She smirked. He returned the twist of his lips as Arquette downed hid Sake shot and Stewart sipped at his water politely.

Glancing her up and down, Lambert sat down on an empty stool and let Mia keep hers. From a ball-like camera, Samaritan kept constant watch over the agents, highlighting them with four targeting circles, as bars and arrows swerved and angled around them.

BAR W CAM 01 - 19:23:40

 **ASSET / / 401 ASSET / / 573 ASSET / / 1014**

 **ASSET IDENTIFIED**

TRACKING_

FUNCTION: **OPERATIVE - PUBLIC ASSET**

NAME: XAVIER, MIA J

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

POSITION: CFO, ZENITH-MEDIA CORPORATION

CFO, LHR-NEWS GROUP

MANDATE: MAINTAIN SYSTEM SURVIVAL

MODE: **HUMAN SURVEILLANCE**

Smiling up at the blinking red dot on the camera, Mia knew about Samaritan from her boss, Lars Rasmussen. But she wasn't it's most active agent, mainly responsible for recruitment and spying, she would get into the highest echelons of influence, speaking with people of interest and bringing them onto the winning side.

"Who's your target this time? The military-type at table four?" Lambert guessed, so once again he was automatically correct. Though he despised the use of a massive Media conglomerate in proceedings, he couldn't deny they were effective and quick. Confirming via a subtle hand motion, Lambert did his best to sound uninterested. "If Samaritan had sent me to take him...we'd be halfway to The Steiner by now, not buttering him up at some Sushi bar."

Xavier scoffed a chuckle "Oh really? Power without knowledge is just brute force, my dear Jeremy." She reasoned. But not to be outdone, Lambert started his own prose with a harsh breath and a distinguished clearing of his throat.

"So, that must mean that knowledge without power is just ivory-towered academics." He retorted, to Mia's suspiciously flirtatious eyebrow raise. "Then combined, power and knowledge shape the face of the planet. Or at least...the face that people like us see." She finished.

Taking his glass of whiskey and raising it to Arquette and Stewart, Lambert toasted the alliance between the Zenith-Media Corp and the forces of Samaritan.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: JUNE 23rd 2008

LOCATION: Midtown, NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: 300 PARK AVE, E 50th ST

LOBBY CAM 009 - 20:22:06

Through the radio's small speaker, a British voice piped across the waves of static. "Kill her - and kill hi-" Then it stopped. Listening from the other end, two black-clad and hooded Agents proceeded from the Lobby into the halls and offices of the Rylatech Plaza.

They were Decima's most covert, a thin-figured woman and the hulking image of a man. With silent steps, Cinder drew her sidearm when they turned the corner. Dressed from head-to-toe in black, she wore combat-issue clothes from her boots to her balaclava hiding everything but her eyes. Her partner wore the same, Decima's security chief called Callahan.

He was one the bulkier enforcers, with a strong chest and arms, tall as a mountain with a clean and bald head perfectly covered by a mask, he was like Zachary, but his albino-white skin left a lot to be desired.

Hunting their target, the pair of attackers rounded the corner towards the central office and manager's rooms. They had entered through the service entrance, and had no resistance so far. Greer had the Rylatech CEO in his pocket and firmly on the Decima payroll, so they'd meet no response from the loyalists. But just in case, Cinder cocked her silenced Smith & Wesson SW1911SC E-Series. Advancing on the offices; Callahan checked the corner.

From the camera, Cinder knew who would be watching. Christopher Virgil had become the eyes and ears of Decima, so it was logical to assume that he had been assigned to watch over them. Even during Cinder's time with Martine, Virgil had shepherded them. Approaching the offices from the corridor to the north, it looked empty.

Observing the room for hostiles, she saw a state of half organised clutter, a series of mahogany desk with three drawers on the right hand side of each, swivel chairs with several stacks of paperwork. A pot of pens in a tin sat near a high floor to ceiling bookshelf with books leaning against one another different directions.

At the end of the room was a row filling cabinets with paper work stacked on top and a leaking water dispenser with no cups. Callahan shrugged "Charming..." He remarked.

Suddenly and without warning, two guards appeared from the other side of the room. Dressed in standard security uniforms, the Rylatech thugs charged them with sidearms drawn. Cinder raised her pistol and fired three shots; the first impacted the closest's guards head and sent him tumbling to the floor.

The other two hit the second guard, he barely touched his weapon's trigger before he was on the ground.

Fluttering her eyebrows, Cinder's masked faced was emotionless as she turned back around to survey the room again. Looking to the other side of the room, the pair of Decima Agents barely got three paces away before another four Rylatech guards pounced on them. "Freeze!" The widest guard shouted.

Callahan touched his earpiece "Virgil..." He indicated. The cameras around them started to blink red, and seconds later the guards were clutching their left ear. Dropping to the floor, crippled, Cinder seized her moment as she raised her suppressed handgun and mowed them down with flashes of gunfire.

Smirking behind her ski-mask, Cinder knew what had happened. Virgil had overloaded the guards's earpieces with static, to a painful degree, it was a disabling tactic that Decima used often and something that always gave them an advantage in combat. Continuing on their way, Callahan stopped when they got to the doors.

Pointing back to the office room, one of the guards started to recover. Crawling away from the attackers, it was Cinder that gave slow chase. Her ankle-length combat boots resonating on the floor, she unsympathetically lowered her weapon, her gloved hand gripping the pistol - then she put two fatal shots into the back of the surviving guard. Silencing the last witness, Cinder span on her heel and marched with Callahan towards the computer complex.

The centre of Rylatech's computer network, it was the workstation of Elyse Holloway.

The sister of the Decima Contractor, she was a loose end, a strategic weakness and an important piece of leverage. Also by taking out the computer network, it would cripple the camera feeds, therefore erasing the presence of the two Decima Agents all together.

Lambert had orchestrated his own grand opera to frame Elyse. Because of the illegal theft of two processors and other equipment from a Rylatech warehouse (and their transportation to Bern, Switzerland) it could be pinned on the Holloway woman that she was responsible, forcing the CEO Baxter to take action.

That's when Lambert instructed Cinder and Callahan to remove Elyse, and then gain the further favour of Baxter and his staff once the problem resolved itself.

Cinder had become a far more loyal Operative than Bryant could have hoped for. She had succeeded every time she was dispatched. In terms of the current mission, Lambert had done his job in drawing out Holloway, and the Chief of Staff to the Operations Director had asked them to eliminate the sister of the failed contractor.

Since the harbour, Cinder had been trained by Bryant and his team of cut-throat operatives, Cinder hadn't fell comfortably into the arms of D-Crypt and his ruses like Martine, she had been recruited through sheer pain and suffering, and had come out a lethal human weapon.

145 OFC CAM 03 - 20:26:18

Entering the computer maintenance room, the room was painted grey and it had only one darkened floor-to-ceiling window, which faced the road on the North side. On the nearest grey desk sat a desktop computer, a notebook lying open, and a stack of papers sitting under a turtle-shaped paperweight. In the corner, the air conditioner was blasting at medium, and there was a swivel chair in the middle of the office and surrounded by monitors. Another bookshelf was in the corner, with yet another stack of papers under a paperweight.

Coming out from the doors at the other side was their target. Elyse Holloway. With a small face and full brown eyes, she had flowing brunette hair that was streaked and was highlighted with a ash-like grey at it's tips. Wearing a flowery blouse and blazer atop of it, she had a formal skirt and tights, that lead to pleasant work-shoes and thick tights. She was holding a phone and looking busy, with a tidy folder in her hand and obviously in the middle of a conversation. Yet she hadn't noticed either Cinder or Callahan.

"Yes, Ross, they did misspell my name on the email-chain. It's two L's, not one." She scathed as she entered the room again. Looking up and doing a quick double-take, she flipped her phone back up to her small ear "Hey, Ross...I'm gonna have to call you back" Tucking the phone away, Callahan gestured with the nozzle of his own suppressed and compensated Heckler & Koch P30L pistol "Put the phone on the table" He growled.

Doing as he said, Elyse withdrew her device and placed it on the table at the side of her. "Did Leighton send you?" She wondered.

Her voice was smooth and clear, unlike Leighton's New Zealand grovel, she had a crisp and sensual sound. Cinder raised her pistol quickly and with lightning speed she fired one soundless bullet into a clunky computer-like device at one of the desks.

The link to the security cameras and their records and history. That was the main control panel. It sparked and lit up the dark room in yellow electrical bursts.

Next, she removed her balaclava. Revealing a clean complexion with a distinctive black and sweeping fringe, it curved across her face like a shard of the moon, her lips were thin and emotionless, and her eyes were caked in black makeup; unlike Elyse who barely wore any. In her septum, Cinder had a circular silver bull-ring, along with an assortment of spiky jewellery littering her ears.

Callahan did the same, taking off his mask to show a bald and serious expression. His eyes were drone-like, and his body as muscled as a horse, he raised his weapon to Elyse's head, aimed right in-between her eyes as she was frozen with fear. He cocked the hammer of his weapon. "It is because of your brother; that you die now."

Without warning, Cinder's radio started to crackle and static leaked from the transceiver. Then Lambert's voice came through.


	28. Chapter 28: Chekhov

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 16th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

OR 249 APLH SC 02 - 18:41:39

"Greer is awaiting my analysis." Martine said sensually from her position in front of the central monitor of the back-room. On the screen that she watched was a top-view of just in front of her; an operating room at the Steiner. Inside the room was a set of high white lights suspended on stilts and overlooking a table. On the table was a man covered in a blue sheet with several surgeons and nurses surrounding him.

Back behind the two-way glass, Martine tilted her head at the heart-rate tracker on the monitor to her right.

Beside her, Thorndyke was looking at his fingernails "One had hoped that he and Gabriel Hayward might have been here for such an occasion." He absentmindedly coughed.

Wearing a navy blue double-breasted blazer, Thorndyke adjusted his cuff-links next before staring down at the nearest screen. At his shoulder, Barrett wiped his nose with his thumb as he preferred to view the operation right in front of him - through the mirror.

"I thought it was important to save you from any potential embarrassment." Martine quipped in response. She wore a slim jacket and patterned button-up shirt, all black. Her hair was once again held at the top of her head in a tight bun. Casting her eyes to the operation in front of her, she couldn't even see the man in question on the table, only the shuffling surgeons moving around his body. "Well...your concerns are hardly warranted." Thorndyke huffed at her in a whispering growl.

Martine rounded on him, turning to look up at the Asset, her scowl turned into a smirk, she knew she was better than him; so she wouldn't stoop to his argument. "As if saying it suddenly makes it so, Mr. Thorndyke." She finished poetically.

On the table, the doctors moved around the head of the body as they opened up another part of the sheet that the body was covered in. Slowly, a metal rod and forceps were taken out of a medical kit and sterilised.

The tallest and leading doctor (An Ohio graduate called Aaron Wendell) held the rod, as his body leaned towards the man unconscious on the table. He had cautioned against this procedure, but a stern word from Murrow or Barrett soon put him back in his place.

The man on the table was identified by the watching eyes of Samaritan as Cayden Hayward, the first of the sleeper drones. His own son (taken over by the ASI) had ordered that the DOD Official be the first of the brainwashed acolytes of Samaritan.

With his brain exposed, Dr Wendell moved the rod as a Technician placed a square magnetic item onto the end of the rod. It was a computer chip. With poles and braces around Cayden's head, a large metal collar covered around his mouth as a mask was fixed to his face and piped him gasses to keep him unconscious. He had been sliced open at the side of the head by a small and surgical blade. The computer chip was designed to influence compliance and made in the same factory where the Samaritan Servers were also constructed.

The metal rod suddenly disappeared into the head of the adult Hayward. Mumbling, Barrett nonchalantly spoke as if he was the only one in the room "I got my dog chipped once. Belgian Malinois, it had a bad habit of chasing cars." He said deeply.

With no noise coming from the operating room, the computer chip was implanted in the brain; all while Cayden was still unconscious. Wendell looked conservatively towards the two-way mirror once the chip was placed, he cleared his throat.

"I've implanted the object, stitching him up now - but I wouldn't recommend putting something like this too close to the brain stem, it's incredibly-" Wendell worried, but he was cut off by Thorndyke on the intercom "Thank you, Doctor." He bypassed.

"We should expect Mr Hayward to be far more accommodating from here on out." Thorndyke rasped with a clear tone as he took his finger off the intercom button. Folding his arms, Barrett inspected the monitors and screens that showed the team of Doctors patching up the wound in Cayden's head. With the chip implanted, now they had to start the reconditioning process. Just like with Gabriel.

Waiting for the cut to be sealed, it left Barrett quiet. Martine was perfectly happy watching, knowing the effects it would have on Cayden. Though Barrett was a merciless thug, he knew that the brainwashing and further indoctrination of people was just a new way of bringing them onto Samaritan's team. The method was questionable and it hadn't been deemed effective as of yet, but there was still time.

Despite that, Barrett was still focussed on his story "Butcher. We called him Butcher, he did actually run away one day. I don't know if we found him though." He remembered. Martine raised an eyebrow at him, tilting her head to the side slightly.

In the operating room, the doctors now worked in stitching up the cut in Hayward's head. "I'm afraid this...attack dog is slightly more advanced. Luckily for us, so is our chip." Thorndyke confirmed.

Patched back through to the operating room, Wendell soon told them that the procedure had concluded. Smiling, Martine turned her head back to the monitor. The wound was sealed up and it seemed clear. Going to the doors, Martine's heeled boots made clicking sounds on the floor of the Steiner. Barrett followed her out of the room and stuck by her side as Thorndyke was left to organise the medical staff. Barrett reached for his phone in his blazer's pocket "Should I contact Mr Greer? If the chip is functional then we need to start an immediate testing phase." Barrett rattled.

"If the chip is functional then we have to retrieve others like Cayden Hayward, talk to Mr. Flint, see if our representatives haven't gained a few more participants." Martine mentioned as they walked towards the control room on the East side of the asylum. Entering through the back doors, they were met by the usual scene; rows of analysts working on desks in the blackened room - the only light coming from screens and the massive centre monitor.

In the middle of the room was Sykes and Murrow, overseeing the company of workers. Murrow was outfitted in his usual black suit, and Sykes wore a form-fitting shirt and a radio attached to his hip. Glancing at them with approval, Sykes gestured to the central screen at the front of the room.

It was feeding a camera's livestream from the grounds of the White House (of all places) and in the gardens it showed two figures walking alongside each other. One was a familiar face - Senator Garrison. Beside the Senator was a short blonde woman with an eccentric stride and a shapely and picturesque face; as if carved from hard marble.

Barrett joined them at the middle of the room as he folded his arms "Who's the pretty blonde? Aside from Martine here." He joked. Martine responded with a sly smirk and a look to Sykes, who soon explained who the woman was.

In reply, Samaritan pulled up a small profile of the subject as Sykes explained verbally. "That is Shelly Spencer, assistant to the White House Press Secretary." He informed.

Then Martine and Barrett both wondered the same question, her connection to Garrison could be argued, but Sykes soon rationalised Samaritan's interest in that factor too "She's Samaritan's latest target, as the Press Secretary is prepping for an anti-surveillance conference a week from now" Sykes said as he leant on the nearest table.

Martine quickly came to a realisation "You say target; but what you mean is-" She was cut off by Sykes again, who swiftly moved his head to eye her up and down. "Ms Spencer is to be Samaritan's second sleeper Agent, following the recalibration of Cayden Hayward."

Another drone in the making. Martine had just watched the team of doctors turn Cayden into a mindless servant and now she could be part of the mission to do the same to another woman.

Putting her faith in Samaritan, she stepped up bravely, moving slowly towards Sykes, she rested her arm on his shoulder. Barrett chuckled as he often did; laughing at his own jokes. In this case, Martine had requested new test subjects, so they had quickly and almost instantly found a new one.

On the screen, the camera tilted smoothly to capture the meeting between Garrison and Spencer. Though the audio wasn't traceable, it wasn't hard to guess what they discussed as the White House had been gripped in a series of cyber-attacks. Coming from an unknown source, a lack of surveillance and internet-monitoring had been blamed. Meaning that Control and her agencies were under threat from the higher branches government to produce results.

Working on possible leads, Samaritan had been dedicating teams of Assets to strengthen Control's ISA operators. "While Greer is busy, I've been put in charge of Asset selection and activation." Sykes said strongly.

Giving a half-smile to Martine, he looked back at the massive wall-mounted monitor. The reflection of the camera's viewpoint in his eyes, the head technician wet his lips.

"You're going to Washington, Martine." He said with pride, as the door opened behind them. Martine nodded briskly and took her arm away from Sykes's shoulder. Fixing a few stray strands of hair, she was already making preparations in her head. "I'll take a squad of Assets, at least ten - Weiss as my point-man." She recommended.

Sykes shook his head and his voice turned low and sultry "That's a negative-" He turned to the door, as a vast shadow approached. It could have been mistaken for Zachary, were it not for his albino skin and steely eyes. Barrett stepped out of the behemoth's way, as the tank of a man stepped up to meet Sykes. Dressed in the same ash-black suit as Murrow, the tall man was one of the bulkier enforcers, with a strong chest and arms, tall as a mountain with a clean, bald head.

" -You'll be taking Callahan." Sykes said while raising his head. Martine cocked an eyebrow as the inhuman mass known as Callahan approached. He was a fairy tale giant, towering over her. "I'll be expecting regular reports, Samaritan will provide you both with aliases as soon as you reach DC." Sykes uttered with a business-like casualness about the situation.

Returning to his work, Sykes dismissed them. Martine took the lead, as the heavy-set frame of Callahan followed. Barrett couldn't help but snicker at his colleagues. As they left, Martine knew the routine for a capture mission, weapons first, then transport - and finally aliases.

This wouldn't be like McCourt at all; firstly, it wasn't a kill mission. Secondly, Samaritan would require the subject unharmed for the operation and mental reconstruction process to work.

Most likely Thorndyke was still handling Cayden in the operating theatre, and setting up his mental reconditioning session. Thirdly, they wouldn't be busting onto the scene with an army of Assets like last time, this was the White House - Or at least The Pentagon - that they'd be infiltrating.

Following Martine, Callahan's voice was low and strong with an North American tone "Lambert tells me you worked with Decima, I did too. We both knew Cinder, perhaps there's common ground there." He said optimistically.

But right now, Martine wasn't in the mood for any light chatter or meaningless conversation. "This isn't Decima; this is Samaritan. We operate under a different mandate now, and I expect you to follow my leadership and cut the chatter, do you understand what I'm saying?" Martine snapped.

"Absolutely." Callahan replied simply.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: OCTOBER 17th 2005

LOCATION: Meshchansky District, MOSCOW, RUSSIA

PRECISE LOCATION: LUBYANKA SQUARE - FSB HEADQUARTERS

OFISNAYA KAMERA DESYAT - 20:01:53

This meeting had been dreaded for months. The new Special Activities division of the FSB was finally up for it's yearly evaluation. In the receptionist's office, the mood was dull and cold, just like the weather outside, the harsh winds of a coming Russian winter.

The room where he waited was impressive but not elegant, with assorted chairs, some comfortable - some upright with padded black seats and carved backs - prints of country landscapes on the walls and foreign magazines neatly arranged on large central cherry wood table. It could have been an Office all to itself, but it was simply a waiting room.

Forming a secret alliance with America's CIA, the FSB has used previous US-based plans to create their own internal Special Activities division from the best of both Russian agencies. Reporting directly to the Kremlin and operating outside the state, it was comprised of the best of the best. Taking inspiration from the CIA's own program, leadership for this new endeavour was scarce, only relying on two Section Chiefs; the original masterminds of the scheme. Though relationships between the two nations were rocky, the latest president's continued transparency allowed the Kremlin to reach out and this meeting to be made possible.

Sat on the carved chairs were the two Section Chiefs in question. Both dressed in their most formal of outfits. One wore a pale creme-coloured three-piece suit, the other wore a dark red shirt with a black blazer and matching tie. The eldest of the pair (A fair and justice-driven man called Aleksandr Vanzin) had been the main force behind the training and recruitment of the new operatives, his partner was more responsible for the business-side of things, the negotiations and democratic perspectives instead of the field-training.

This was his arena and yet the negotiation-specialist was the more worried of the two. Aleksandr had given many reassurances to his friend, so he did it once again.

This was simply a routine evaluation - but Vladislav Chekhov didn't see it that way.

This wasn't routine at all, there was nothing routine about it; if this meeting went well, it was their chance to make the previously unheard of FSB-SO a real and recognised agency, hopefully bringing in hundreds of new agents.

Tapping his finger on the arm of the chair, Vanzin told his colleague to once again calm down. Chekhov smiled and checked his watch - only a minute to go until they're expected. The receptionist was a red-haired woman with sharp eyes and a thin nose, she glanced at them, checking them up and down, then the receptionist returned to her computer.

Chekhov looked up at the box-like camera, his disdain growing for the newly installed watching-eyes all around them. With such power over surveillance, the question arose of who exactly was getting all these newfound feeds and camera recordings? It was a question that Chekhov pondered in the short seconds before the Director's door opened.

They were summoned by the Director's Aide, then the receptionist mirrored his words. With Vanzin leading, Chekhov followed behind and brought his thin folder of papers with him. Vanzin dusted the lapels of his black blazer while Chekhov adjusted the knot of his creme-coloured tie, which he wore along with a white shirt and creme ensemble of waistcoat, suit-jacket and slacks.

The office was imperial, with a grand wooden ceiling and at least three chandeliers hanging from it. Many glass cabinets held trophies and pictures of the Director standing with the Russian President and with other officials and worldwide intelligence community members.

Large white curtains covered the windows and a long table with chairs was set aside. This meeting would take place at the Director's own desk. Director Usenko was a respected powerful dignitary of the FSB - holding the position for at least two presidents, this would be his final year in office.

Sat beside Usenko was his second-in-command, Deputy Director Lutin and his Aide, Patrushev, beside them were two new figures. One was a dark-skinned and broad chested Male, wearing a six-button blazer and expensive cuff-links, he had a pair of rounded rectangular glasses perched on his thick nose that lead to beady brown eyes. The man beside him was a lean and gaunt ghoul, with a balding head and a crooked nose, he wore a grey uniform and had a clear sidearm hostler under his jacket, something that obviously unnerved Chekhov as he sat down.

"Gentlemen, welcome back to Moscow. May I introduce Supervising Agent Terence Beale - our contact in the CIA - and Agent Mark Snow, his bodyguard and handler within the agency." Director Usenko introduced. Beale was obviously the larger man, who raised from his seat to give a hearty handshake to both men. Snow was more solemn, collecting his thoughts in the background of the room where he was looming like a ghost.

For the sake of the Americans, it was lucky that each Russian in the room spoke English. "Our President sends his regards, he's very grateful for the Kremlin's cooperation." Beale resounded with a smooth voice. His baritone voice echoed across the room as Chekhov gave a slow nod and Aleksandr agreed silently.

At the other side of the desk, their boss could be seen lounging in his grand throne-like chair. Director Usenko was a stout man, with a heavy beard and wrinkled features, he spoke with a weighted accent and wore several KGB and FSB pins and badges on his suit's lapel.

His deputy was more modern, with piercing blue eyes, pouting lips and a politician's brown-haired comb-over.

Deputy Director Lukin as the rising successor to Usenko, but arguably an even worse fit for the job. Overly critical and sensitive, the young resident was brought to this position only by his father's history with the older and more sadistic agencies of the past. Thinking him to be a prodigy, Lukin was raised to Section Chief faster than anyone else - and then even faster to the powerful rank of Deputy Director.

Sitting behind Lukin was his assistant - a meek and thin man called Patrushev, who held little to no power, being made to serve the arrogant Deputy Director. Holding a pen and paper, Patrushev was silent as Usenko reached over the table to get a good look at both men. "The pioneers of our agency's future...that's what I've heard. But my analysts tell me that recent results have been less than fruitful, no?" Usenko asked rhetorically.

Vanzin was quick to clear things up, offering Chekhov's pages of data as proof. Picking up the file, the Director scanned the pages and passed it over to Beale, who lowered his glasses to read the information. "Though our number of operatives is small, we've been working cases in both Ukraine and Laos-" Aleksandr attempted to explain but Usenko cut him off with a brazen chuckle.

"Cases that are still ongoing, my Chiefs tell me." The Director laughed. They were hardly impressed as even Agent Snow managed a half-smirk. Aleksandr admitted that he wasn't the best at explaining, he told the Director (in Russian) that he only trained and oversaw the operatives, he wasn't responsible for 'business' as he put it.

Eager to translate, Lukin dipped his head forward to the watching Beale "The man beside Mr Vanzin is Vladislav Chekhov, who hails himself as this new department's negotiator." The Deputy Director said smugly.

Beale looked at Chekhov, his resonant voice was a deep and gentle boom "Ah, I've heard a lot about you, though in some ways I feel like I already know you." Beale told him in a fatherly-like manner. Reacting with some shock, Chekhov inquired with a raised eyebrow, clearly the CIA didn't skip out on their research as Beale produced a complete and handheld dossier on the Russian.

The Americans had been watching him for a long time, or so Beale said. "Born in Omsk, Russia, age forty-six and joined the FSB shortly after it was formed; the reason is a little vague but we know what you did in Yary and your affiliation with Mr Tarasovich." Beale remarked, making the room go quiet.

Arguably - and thanks to this information - they knew more about Chekhov than they did about his partner Aleksandr. Taking the dossier to have a look, Beale gave a chuckle "Don't worry we aren't going to broadcast that, but you'll forgive our curiosity Mr Chekhov, we're simply checking up on any leads to Tarasovich's current whereabouts."

"My interest in Nazarov Tarasovich is purely a sporting one." Chekhov admitted with a faint smile, trying not to cause any offence. Slowly, Agent Snow started to amble from one side of room to the other, casually glancing at the ornaments and furniture.

Interrupting the exchange, Lukin scoffs in an egocentric way "In this case...you have no sympathy for the Fox, hmm?" He questions.

Sipping some water from the glasses on the table, Chekhov shakes his head mid-drink "Not particularly, I understand the point of view of the hound too." He rationalised. Nodding, Vanzin scratched the side of his head to distract himself.

The rogue agent known as Tarasovich had become a problem after his illegal operations were uncovered in Colorado and an unknown team had removed one of his informants. It could be traced back to Tarasovich's contacts at the FSB, as the man called 'Venator' had a vast web of followers in the new Russian agencies.

Few were above suspicion, as Lukin told them so in their native language. But obviously no one in the other side of the desk had been interrogated as far as Vanzin and Chekhov had been. Then Usenko and Beale turned their gazes to Chekhov's partner.

"What about you, Vanzin? We know even less about you." The Director said with a bellowing tone. Aleksandr didn't reply straight away, taking a moment to try and protest his confusion at Director Usenko's sudden change in tone, but Deputy Director Lukin offered nothing but a scornful glance.

Losing the motif of a stern drill-instructor the moment he stepped into the room, Vanzin was now an apologetic man, much like the man that Chekhov knew; careful, caring and sensitive.

Aleksandr attempted a sympathetic chuckle "I come from Rostov, my family was very poor, they didn't even have the money to send me to University - so every day I would watch the soldiers march through town, and I would wish that I could join them. My application to the KGB couldn't have come sooner for me...and after the fall of the Soviet Union I met Mr Chekhov here...who has been nothing but supporting to my family and I." Aleksandr said with a hand on the desk.

Usenko and Beale listened carefully as Agent Snow stopped at the other side of the room, waiting there ominously like a spectre. Slapping the pages of data that Chekhov brought with him, Usenko grinned. "How long have you been training these special operators, Vanzin?" The Director asked, fixing a pin on his blazer. Aleksandr straightened up in his chair, lowering his voice out of respect. "Ever since you sanctioned the program - two years ago." Aleksandr responded.

"And Mr Chekhov, you've always been responsible for negotiation; as you call it?" Beale spoke next, in his loud and proud manner.

"Yes, I've been the liaison to any outside intelligence agencies, including our own SVR and GU Departments, despite the-" Chekhov was going to continue, but the Director himself spoke over him.

In his heavy accent, Usenko pointed towards Vladislav "You can talk...but you can't train my troops. What good is a talker without action? If I have you-" He indicated towards Aleksandr with his finger, before pulling it back and interrogating Chekhov further.

"- Then I won't need anyone else. Why should I discuss terms with someone who obviously doesn't respect me?" Usenko made clear to them.

Aleksandr and Chekhov both produced confused glances. "Chekhov has been working under us this whole time...and I believe he is exactly the person that Tarasovich wants on the inside." The Director accused. Leaning closer over his desk, the Director pushed aside the attempts of his staff to calm the situation, even Lukin refrained from speaking.

"So tell me Vladislav...what need have I for a traitor?" He slandered. Beale's hand twitched on his chair's arm as the Director was suddenly distracted by Aleksandr's plea for a reprieve.

"Sir, he meant no insult. I know Vladislav like a brother, he's an honourable man. The most loyal man I've ever known, he has taught me so much - and we need each other. He made me the man I am today; he's a genius, and he'll serve you well. Just find it in your heart to forgive him...for one small misstep. Please, he's my partner - I need him - together we can-"

A small crack in the air broke Aleksandr's speech as a splatter of crimson stained his partner's suit. Chekhov winced and held his hand up to protect himself from the blood spray - looking back, Aleksandr's head bore a large hole...as Agent Snow stood holding a silenced Glock 17 handgun.

"Oops. Finger slipped." Snow taunted.

Charging the man, Chekhov leapt out of his seat as the whole room (except for Director Usenko) rose to their feet. Within seconds, Supervising Agent Beale - with surprising strength - had restrained Chekhov and pushed him to the floor.

Soon Lukin's guards had swarmed the room and escorted the Deputy Director and his assistant away. Only two of the uniformed guards stayed behind to hold the raging Chekhov down. Beale backed away, buttoning his blazer up and straightening his glasses while the Director remained in his seat.

Still holding the pistol, Snow pressed his foot to Chekhov's squirming head as he struggled and tried to look away from the corpse of his best friend. Still bleeding onto the carpeted floor, Aleksandr's face was the picture of death's coldness.

Soon enough, Director Usenko finished his glass of water and sauntered over, leaning down to Vladislav's ear.

"Listen to me. The only reason that you are alive and he is not...is because I know who you are and I know you are connected to Tarasovich. Your partner was right...you will serve me well." Usenko finished with, strolling from the room.

"My advice; stick to what you know...be a negotiator." Agent Snow mocked, as blood still covered Chekhov's weeping face.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 17th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: NYPD 8th PRECINCT

BULLPEN CAM 14 - 15:11:02

"As the White House's Press Secretary prepares for a departure to Albany later this week, the question was raised by the media today of who will issue a statement confirming the rumoured cyber-attacks on government facilities? The leak came from a source inside the NSA, who describes a massive power outage covered-up by authorities at Fort Meade." The newscaster reported from outside the White House.

Being watched on the television screen inside the 8th Precinct, a small crowd had gathered to view the latest news headlines. The precinct was a collection of arranged desks and glass booths with a clear corridor entrance and metal staircase leading up to the second floor in the middle of the room.

The desks were arranged orderly (except for one) as the Captain walked by to the inspect the commotion.

As soon as Moreno cast her soft yet intimidating brown eyes onto the group of Cops, they immediately started to slowly walk away and back to their duties. Hurrying them along, Captain Moreno went back to the TV screen as another Detective hung back to get a closer look at the closing seconds of the broadcast.

"- But despite the recent negative press it's confirmed that global business magnate, Lars Rasmussen, will be reopening the accounts of his public bank chain. After facing scrutiny by the world's press Mr. Rasmussen has agreed to reopen the thousands of frozen accounts held in his US-based banking chain. In other news, the recent death of Congressman Roger McCourt has sparked rebellion among the ranks of the Illinois Machinist Union, who held a protest here yesterday-" The reporter's voice was soon cut off by the TV cutting to black.

Moreno moved her finger away from the power button. The Detective that watched it sighed and held his hands up with a harsh exhale "Hey - I was watching that!" He blurted. Rounding on the young Detective, Moreno put her hands to her hips.

The Captain was a short woman, with dark hazel brown hair, a navy police blazer and a gold necklace clasped around her throat. She had a tough yet forgiving face as she puckered her lips "Where should you be Detective..." She struggled for the name.

"Harrison, Jake Harrison." The young man perked up. He was pleasantly handsome, with a small dimple by his lip and a slick curve of brown-blonde hair. Harrison was dressed in a sharp jacket and carried his shield-badge in his left hand. Smiling, his teeth were straight white gems and his complexion was a tanned light pink. "Then where should you be, Detective Harrison?" Moreno repeated herself.

The offices of the 8th Precinct were awash with people on this busy day, so the last thing the Captain needed was a slacker. He didn't look like one either, energetic and clearly ready to work, Harrison picked up a handbook and clipboard "I was just working a case with Detective MacIntyre, I guess I got caught up." He gave his excuse to Moreno's eye roll.

The Captain nodded once and took a glance around the Precinct's large office spaces, noticing the only empty desk - and also the most cluttered one. "So you've been working with MacIntyre huh? What happened to the last partner you got assigned to?" Moreno wondered, scanning the empty desk.

"Who? Detective Fiasco? Lionel - The great and powerful? He took off, on some joyride with a Officer from Narcotics." Jake informed her. Her eyebrows went up and down at that, she knew that the infamous Fusco was a problem, but not one she had been forced to face yet. Going over to his desk, Harrison trailed behind her at a safe distance. It looked like he had 'took off' alright, leaving a particularly nasty smell and mess behind.

Cursing, Captain Moreno arranged some papers and a fat keystone-cop doll on his desk, what a piece of junk. Harrison watched her and when she was done, he shrugged. "I guess some people don't change." Jake commented - seconded by a watching Officer with stone-grey hair, who nodded and raised his mug of coffee.

Walking past, a large-cheeked man sauntered by Fusco's empty desk and offered some words of wisdom "Oh, Fusco, he's always got a messy desk. But trust me, the desk shows the Cop." The Detective said with a pinch of respect for the man. Captain Moreno turned her head slightly to see a middle-aged Cop, with a high forehead and a low jawline, he had round and large cheeks and dull eyes.

"The desk shows the Cop?" Moreno said aloud, questioning his statement.

"That's right. Sure, it looks to be dirty on the outside, but underneath, there's a dedication and a love for the job. You check those records - nothing'll be out of date, and everything has it's place. That's Fusco." The Detective assured, with his shield-badge poking out from his belt-line.

Moreno thanked him for his poetic wisdom and quickly inquired his name. "Kane. Detective Kane - by the way, Captain - someone's here to see you" Kane told her, before observing the situation as Moreno eyed a man by the waiting desk.

A lean figure was stood by the seats that they'd normally put waiting convicts in. Slowly, Captain Moreno approached the stranger, with Detectives Kane and Harrison acting as onlookers.

The stranger was besuited, a sharp-faced man with a clean and smart face, pointy ears and curving lips. He had silver hair much like Moreno's father, but looked a quarter of his age. He approached with a file in-hand, and a business-like look about his face. Walking towards her, his first action was to quickly glance the female Captain up and down before opening with a question (but worded like a statement) "Captain Moreno?"

"Yes?" Moreno responded, thinking she could have said nothing else.

The man immediately badges her - whipping out his shield, he's a Fed. "Agent LeRoux, FBI. I've some questions for you about an unsolved murder." He started out with. Intrigued herself, Moreno asked the Agent into one of the unused interrogation rooms, where they'd often have private conversations.

INTERVIEW ROOM 04 CAM 04 - 15:26:08

Slamming the paper down on the cold metal table, Moreno leant to pick it up, in hindsight she shouldn't be discussing anything with a Fed without Internal Affairs present, but since Officer Soriano was off today, she couldn't afford to wait.

Sealed with a classified FBI and SEC sticker and stamp, the docket was curiously picked up by the Captain. The file that LeRoux had was on an interesting case, that much was true. It was a fatality report from the SEC on a Investigative officer called Douglas Rasmussen, who was supposedly killed in mysterious circumstances.

Reading the piece in-depth, Moreno found that Douglas was in fact angered that the government has defanged the SEC, so perhaps he set out to use his position to make a profit.

He was responsible for the short sale and later collapse of Tritak Energy and after a team of assassins (mentioned in the NYPD's report and theorised to be hired by Douglas) failed to kill the broker who was able to undo the damage that Douglas and his partner-in-crime Paul Ashton caused, he was arrested later by Police.

It seemed like an open and shut case. Why would a Federal Agent be so interested in it? Douglas got off easily on bail and was later found in his apartment in Queens, with the scene looking like a suicide - nothing more to it.

"What exactly do you want to know here? Mr Rasmussen's death seems pretty standard, hardly unsolved." Moreno judged.

"We have sources that say otherwise." LeRoux countered. Thinking back to the news broadcast, Moreno remembered the words of the presenter-

'global business magnate Lars Rasmussen will be reopening the accounts of his public bank chain'

Surely the FBI weren't looking for ways to discredit the businessman Rasmussen? If they knew that this SEC Officer was related to him, then they'd have a case to say that the Tritak scandal wasn't the reason for Douglas's death.

The owner of Zenith-Media Corp could easily hire a team of assassins, as his days of community outreach and donation were over.

Using a hand to flick the locks of brown hair away from her face, Moreno looked across the room at the Fed as she placed his file back on the table again. "What would you like me to do, Agent..." She didn't forget his name, this was more of a verbal gesture.

"LeRoux - and I'd like you to provide any additional information on this case, if you please." Agent LeRoux asked with annoyance. To that, Moreno thought for a second. Every second that passed, she considered a new option.

"This is an open and shut case, Agent LeRoux, but even if I did have anything - I wouldn't know how access it. I'm a very recent transfer and my speciality isn't in Homicide - if that's what your assuming this to be." She made clear.

Formally, LeRoux thanked her for her time, nodding politely, she held the door for him as he collected his file and slipped it under his arm before walking out. As Agent LeRoux strode from the precinct, Captain Moreno joined the waiting Kane and Harrison, who exchanged puzzled looks.

Rubbing her chin, Moreno clicked her fingers. As soon as LeRoux disappeared around the corner of the entrance, she cocked her head sideways "Detective Kane, can we run a background check on Agent LeRoux?" She requested plainly but with the undertone of interest.

ENTRANCE CAM 01 - 15:35:03

 **ASSET / / 810**

Walking outside the precinct entrance, LeRoux fumbled in his pockets to find his phone. Whenever he found it, he pulled it out and selected a number that connected him to the Steiner, the site of Samaritan's operations and the base of his superiors.

DATE: AUGUST 17th 2014

—M, LEROUX

— **ALIAS - M, MURROW**

 **TELECOM INTERCEPT**

/ / / NLU ACTIVE

[M, MURROW] : HOW WAS YOUR MEETING WITH THE **NYPD**?

[M, LEROUX] : IF THEY KNOW ANYTHING, THEY AREN'T GOING TO TELL ME. THE IGNORANT **BITCH** DOESN'T KNOW WHAT'S GOOD FOR HER.

[M, MURROW] : PATIENCE, WE'LL HAVE TO FIND ANOTHER WAY OF GETTING TO THEM, PERHAPS A LESS DIRECT APPROACH NEXT TIME.

[M, LEROUX] : WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

[M, MURROW] : I'M SURE **SAMARITAN** WILL UNCOVER SOMETHING MORE...SENSITIVE.


	29. Chapter 29: Asset

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: JUNE 15th 2008

LOCATION: BERN, SWITZERLAND

ARRÈT DE BUS 010 CAM 5 - 18:56:14

The Rain fell in crazy chaotic drops, the gusting wind carrying them in wild sweeps one moment and in diagonal sheets the next. It ran down her hooded face as a thin layer, not as cold as it will be when November comes, but without the warmth of summer showers.

She pulled the black coat over her saturated form as she sauntered to the bus stop, small pellets of water spitting on her hands as the remainder of the drops quenched the scattered puddles decorating the asphalt.

Through one of the pools of rainwater, the familiar flash of police sirens are brought to her attention. Georgia managed to lift her head up just a bit at that. On the sidewalk ahead the uneven slabs have a rainbow sheen - all that is left of a kids game of hopscotch. The outline is still there, a ghostly shadow of what it was before the heavy rains that pounded the city last night - leading to this morning. Above the sky is dominated by tumbling greys, smoky and silver.

She could still remember every face from her time in prison. Every experience etched on her skin in the artwork of scars that patterned her pale complexion. She had tried to hide it under a long and soft grey coat, it clung to her skin and was starting to get wetter with the falling rain.

She had survived the prison shootout and was simply put into solitary confinement for the rest of her stay in prison.

Thanks to a technicality, she was accidentally released with a batch of other prisoners on a community service trip. Armed with a guard's satellite phone, Newport contacted her friends in Tarasovich's gang, who broke her out on the bus-ride back to the island lockup only hours later.

She ducked her head as two Swiss Police cars trailed past her, looking away, she gradually went back on her chosen path. Reaching the bus stop eventually, she joined the back of the line, comprised mostly of tired and cold faces.

The bus they rode on was slow but sleek, running over the black tarmac so fast that the passing greenery and building became a hazy blur. The windows were beaded and the rain beat down on the roof like a fast-paced drummer. Inside were a curious mixture of the cozy and the bored, all of them itching for the destination that will come to them. Until then they looked through books, feigned sleep, did crosswords from the daily paper and told stories. But Georgia was silent.

After the majority of the journey was over only a select group of strangers remained in the bus. A muddied silence had overtaken them. The seats and windows began to shake with every small bump in the ragged pavement, jostling the passengers back and forth.

The air conditioning pumps through only a few filters, whistling with the extreme pressure of the outside wind. It smelt slightly of diluted gas. As the world slides by the window, there were small movements from amongst the passengers.

Georgia hadn't changed much since she last met Chekhov in the bar across from the restaurant where he had scammed that American Technology mogul; Barnett. Her makeup was still a dark black and brooding, her lips were glossed in a shadowy purple. With was dyed straight down the middle, one side was a fading jet-black and the other side was a cotton-candy pink which had now turned into a leaky blonde.

She wore a long grey overcoat over a black laced-up corset, a slim lace shirt and a knee-length skirt. Fishnet tights kept her legs warm as she wore patterned ankle-length combat boots.

Sat by herself in one of the lower seats, she had placed a small backpack beside her to deter any unwanted company, along with keeping the hood of her coat up and a heavy cotton scarf around her neck. Earbuds stuck into her ears, Georgia craved the distraction as her head fell against the side of the bus window.

Someone shifts in their seat, there's a little cough at the back of the bus and a mild "Bless you..." From a stranger in French, Or was it Dutch - Georgia didn't pay attention. The brakes squeak and everyone lurches forward as the bus comes to a stop.

Outside, an elderly woman drops her cigarette, smothers it with her heel and steps inside, dropping a quarter in to the plastic box and blowing the last breath full of smoke in the driver's face, who swats it away as she walks down the aisle. The doors close with a gasp of air and the bus lurches on, repeating its eternal pattern of stops and now turning down its routine corners and failing to avoid the ditches carved in the blacktop.

After the next rocking of the bus, Georgia's eyes begin to close as a hand touches her shoulder.

"What're you listening to?" A stranger said in English. Clear English - from an American no less. Jolted from her half-slumber, Georgia blinked a couple of times, turning around to look at the source of the voice. Female - early 20s, redhead, casually dressed with an athletic body and emotional brown eyes. Withdrawing her left earbud, Georgia cocked up an eyebrow. "Can I listen? Please - my ears are clean, I promise." The female piped innocently with a giggle.

It was too tempting. It was getting late and her guard was down, Georgia wasn't thinking like an Agent of Chekhov's Shadow Army. Mumbling (and in desperate need of company) Georgia indulged the stranger. Georgia managed to bite her lower lip as she passed both earbuds to the female, looking up at her face - the athletic woman listened to the last few bars of Radiohead's 'Exit Music (For a Film)' and closed her eyes before wetting her lips.

"It's beautiful...but it's so sad." She said literally, her eyes lowering back down to Georgia.

Newport didn't have an answer for that, curling her lip slightly "Well...it helps me relax." She managed. Considerately, the athletic woman tried to offer her sympathy, passing the earbuds back to Georgia after fiddling with them and brushing past some locks of red-tinted hair. "Long day?" The stranger asked.

"Yeah, I work at a callcenter - so, you know, yeah. Two-hundred strangers an hour." Forgetting protocol, Georgia dropped her imitated American accent for her natural British, yet she still provided her cover-story with 'Callcenter' being the code word for 'hacking on behalf of an illegal anti-government/terrorist cell' but at least Georgia was more discreet with that fact than some other members.

The athletic female yielded, patting the back of the empty seat in front of her and leaning back, conceding with a disappointed sigh "I'll leave you alone then. You probably don't want to talk to another one." She apologised. Georgia reassured her with a murmur, telling her that it was alright - and she didn't need to worry.

"As long as you don't hang up on me..." Georgia joked, eyeing one of the clunky on-board security cameras for a second.

The stranger responded with a short chuckle as she leant forward again - over the chair in front of her this time. "Do you ever just talk to them? Like really talk to them; the strangers." The stranger clarified, wonder in her voice. Georgia looked back at her with curious intent, as if she never considered it - even from a fictional cover-story.

Blinking, Georgia tilted her head. "No, I don't. We're not allowed to do that." Georgia resolved. She always knew who she was tracking, exposing, or hacking into. But she never questioned who they actually where as people. Their history or character. From the Operations Director of Decima Technologies to the CFO of Zenith-Media Corp, Georgia never cared for any information that wasn't connected to her mission.

"Then you've got more restraint than me. All I'd wanna do is ask them about who they are." The stranger confessed. The athletic stranger wore a flannel shirt atop of a uniform, including a name-tag that was currently unreadable. A modest skirt and tights - and ballet-like shoes that laced-up at the top. "What about you? What do you do?" Georgia responded with.

Reaching down into her handbag, the athletic woman pulled out a leaflet (albeit in French) it looked like some kind of bookstore. "I work in the Swiss National Library, the American fiction section - obviously." Commenting on her accent, she smirked.

Georgia took the leaflet, checking it over, she went to hand it back after a good once-over with her eyes "I'm not that into books, I'm more digital." Georgia offered a similar smile, but the athletic woman refused with a small hand-gesture. "Just keep it; check it out, or don't." The woman replied.

"We've got a really well-stocked music section though." The stranger finished, leaning back with a huff and a empathetic smile. Georgia nodded before turning her head back around, slipping in the earbuds and leaning against the window again - as if nothing ever happened.

DEUXIÈME ÈTAGE SEC 04 CAM 5 - 19:30:54

Getting back to her apartment block, Georgia reached her room and pulled out her key from the furthest innards inside the deep pockets of her coat. Slotting her key into the lock she turned it quickly and with a jolt - the door opened. It was already open. Looking curiously at the door, Georgia pushed it open with her boot.

Reaching into her backpack, she slowly pulled out a loaded, gunmetal grey Heizer DoubleTap Defence Derringer pistol, stepping into her apartment, she raised her weapon. Kicking the door closed again, it slammed shut.

The apartment was a web of many rooms and pillars, so it made it even harder to search for an intruder. The room gave away more than she meant it to. Over the mantlepiece in the hallway were pictures of a guy that looks just like her - her own brother. Deceased, most likely, given the careful placement of white and red candles.

Around it are smaller pictures of the two of them, attending parties and around a circular dinner-table, Georgia even having dyed blue hair in some pictures, infused with a neon green. He was younger, probably by a couple of years.

Everything else is of her mother, no father here. Every decoration had a purpose, from band-posters in frames to the antique vinyl record player and the stack of records (still in their original cases) beside it.

In the kitchen are those ubiquitous statements of friendship engraved into plaques on the wall, and small voodoo dolls dressed in pastel shades. Georgia wanted to love again, but she knew that she couldn't replicate what she has lost. Inside her is a void, one she needed to fill. Dropping the bag on her doormat and still holding the pistol, Georgia hugged the wall of the corridor. She had to be careful now; the intruder could be anywhere.

She dared to move, her hand starting to twitch on the handle of the gun. The CIA?

Her mind raced before she felt something. Motion, in her living room. Seeing the glimpse of light from the living room, it sounded like there was only one figure.

Turning her head to the side, she didn't want to move an inch and risk being discovered. Her living room's walls were hung with fine grey canvas, it had a large, silvery grey and silky carpet and the furniture was covered with dark green material.

Into the reticence of futurism, Omega cushions and Van-Gogh-like pictures exploded their styles onto canvases that hung on the walls.

Sensing movement again, Georgia pushed herself off the wall and extended her arm. Mouthing curses as she was about to press the trigger.

But her finger relaxed, she didn't act as she did when she escaped Rikers Island's community service - she never touched the fateful trigger this time. Rikers had changed her, made her see the worst of the justice system and the worst of human nature.

In front of her, a slender hand moved a suppressed FN Five-SeveN and targeted it at her chest. "If you could kindly drop your weapon, Georgia." Laszlo said smartly.

Sat in the largest armchair in the room, he rested his hand on the arm of the chair, the extended barrel of the silencer pointed at her sternum. Not letting her hand drop just let, Georgia's eyes still kept the same fire.

Laszlo was Chekhov's man, a servant and aide of the Vindicator. So why would he be sent here to threaten her? Because that's what he was doing, with a gun held on her and the lingering threat of another assailant around her. Assuming that Chekhov was still in the country, that is.

"You first, Laszlo - and if you want to tell me why you're here, now would be a good time." She pointed her pistol to him to force her words out. But she couldn't hide her fear; Georgia was shaking.

The man across from her was dressed in a faded green turtleneck and grey blazer, with shining black shoes and the logo of a white origami peace-dove on his suit-jacket. Wielding his pistol, Laszlo seemed calmer than when they last saw each other, on the day that Newport arrived in Bern after breaking out of Rikers Island.

"Chekhov has left Bern, Ernst Bortnikov is in charge of our operation here now. He'd like to talk to you." Laszlo informed her and directed her forward with his spare hand, but she didn't move.

That was a name that she hadn't heard in a long time, even before Tarasovich began to work with her, before Obanno and Massey, Ernst Bortnikov was a widely respected man of mystery, a digital wizard who had never been charged or arrested with any crime.

Despite the fact that he now was working with Chekhov, his name brought the whole crusade some respect in Georgia's eyes. He was a legend in the DarkWeb and once upon a time - Georgia had created several algorithms for him during a terrorist-sponsored Coup d'e'tat in Casablanca, Morocco.

Still not lowering her weapon, they locked eyes. "Talk to me about what?" Georgia questioned, as she saw Laszlo glancing her up and down.

"After your untimely defection from Tarasovich's cell, Ernst has called your loyalties into question." Laszlo challenged. Though his words were untrue, his sentiment seemed legitimate. After all, it was Georgia's actions that led to Nazarov's death by the hands of a unknown team; but after accessing CCTV footage, Georgia knew it was a Decima hit-squad. She had come to the conclusion that the woman who met her in Rikers, under the name Caroline Wheeler, was connected to Decima.

Even from behind the glass window on that very day, the amount of information at Wheeler's disposal was unbecoming for the intergovernmental affairs division, a small spark of a theory grew at the time that she was being informed by Decima itself, but that seemed stupid to her back then. But now Georgia knew that it was real.

Laszlo was Ukrainian, with sharp black hair and ice-like eyes, he was quite handsome, but as handsome as a devil-possessed middleman could be. Smirking in reply, Georgia couldn't believe her ears. "I didn't defect, Nazarov died...I had no other choice." She admitted.

A few months after she broke out and was still keeping a low profile, the news came out on the DarkWeb that Tarasovich had been assassinated. Her mentor and friend had been slain so quickly and at the time by unknown means. She could still feel the apprehension, tight in her chest.

Laszlo gave a fiendish smile "You could have done the smart thing and disappeared, gone off the grid completely, but no, you had to play vigilante - trying to save the world from itself." He spat. Even as Georgia came closer, holding her pistol from the hip, the tip of Laszlo's suppressor was trained on her body. "After Nazarov, you shouldn't have gotten involved." He warned her.

"Is this an intervention? You're trying to make me quit, aren't you? I'll go on my own terms Laszlo - and you can say the same to Ernst." Georgia returned, about to demand his peaceful exit, the Ukrainian Male sighed aloud, raising his pistol to offer no threat.

"You can tell him yourself." Laszlo scowled, moving back in her chair and looking on curiously.

Suddenly, a hand gripped Georgia's shoulder as a shocking pulse was sent through her - a taser. Convulsing, the woman's thin and wiry body dropped to the floor.

There was a second intruder as Georgia lost all feeling in her body, the energy tingled through her like electrical sparks on the way to the ground, gathering in her toes as she fell to the floor. The second intruder was more muscled than Laszlo, as he started to prepare a needle and felt across Newport's neck for a vein.

Finding one, he injected her with an unknown substance that quickly made her whole world go black and fuzzy as Laszlo strode over, his pixelated form standing above her, the weapon still in his hand.

HANGAR 3 SEC 01 - 20:14:21

Hearing a chorus of unknown, strange voices, Georgia slowly and reluctantly came to her senses. She uncovered her face and blinked, closing her eyes, then blinking again.

Streaks of sunlight penetrated the windows and blinded her from where she was.

How did she even get here? She didn't know what time it was or how she had been transported to this large metal hangar as the light started to fill her eyes again and everything became clearer.

The voices she heard were other languages, German, Russian and some Italian...and music. Some light and sweet-sounding music, coming from an old cassette player on a table not far from her.

Scanning the room, it looked like more of a hardware storehouse than an aircraft hangar, with both of the mighty metal doors shut as only a few guards and attendants walking around the area.

Stood by the table were two men - one obviously Laszlo as he held the same firearm he entered her room with - in his other hand he held her phone, a short silver flip-phone handset that he seemed to study before placing it in front of him.

Beside Laszlo was an older man with curly and wispy grey hair.

He was shorter than the Ukrainian and more rounded, wearing a heavy brown raincoat and buttoned-up flannel shirt - pattered in black, red and hints of yellow.

The music was still an enigma to her, but as soon as the raincoat-wearing man began to sing along to the melody, it all clicked in her head. The song was the German version of '99 Red Balloons' and the singer was Ernst Bortnikov - Chekhov's communications and IT Chief.

Coming around, it was the smirking Laszlo that noticed first. Georgia was lying on her side on the floor of the formerly dormant hangar, she recovered slowly, getting to her knees. With hands held tightly together by ropes, Laszlo noticed the bound woman attempting to stand - he gestured to his guards, who quickly surrounded her, their handguns clicking into position as they aimed at her head. Ernst however wasn't as interested yet, as he was still singing as he prepared something on his laptop.

Shaking his torso to the beat, Ernst nodded his head as the cassette played, singing in perfect German, he replicated the lyrics in a mockingly high-pitched voice.

Tapping him on the shoulder, Laszlo failed to get his attention until Georgia coughed under her breath, making Bortnikov straighten up and leer around to view her. "Ah, you're awake. Brilliant!" Ernst started with, going to the cassette player to hit the pause button.

Jamming it with his finger, he started to slowly approach her with Laszlo close behind him.

"I hope that Mr Laszlo wasn't too aggressive in retrieving you...I did say unharmed, but sometimes my requests fall on deaf ears." Ernst apologised promptly, but Newport wouldn't even look up at him, instead she was judging her surroundings, the hangar filled with servers and blinking LEDs, stacks of weapons and blueprints of large buildings.

Ernst felt the need to get her attention by clicking his fingers in front of her face bluntly "I had brought you here to talk, Georgia. I'm sorry for my clandestine secrecy, but there was no other way. We never finished our conversation in Casablanca; which is where you thought I was." He revealed.

Trying to stand to her feet, Georgia had been stripped of her coat, so she stumbled to one knee - the guards closing in on her - strangely, Laszlo held up a hand for them to stop. Georgia climbed to her feet to reason with the man across from her.

"Chekhov's gone, he's on his way back to Oregon...he told me himself, I tried to warn him. He trusts me with his information, including the ISA documents and his plan to cover his meeting with Barnett, who's module I'm guessing he gave to you." Newport divulged, raising her eyebrows.

Ernst cocked his head upwards, then back down again. "You tried to warn him...about what?" He repeated, showing an ounce of emotion for his employer. She didn't want to get too close to him, as Laszlo still kept his sadistic smirk as his guards followed Georgia on her step forward.

"He's a fugitive, after Moscow, he's on every most-wanted list in the world. You're a fool if you don't think that the CIA and the ISA aren't bugging him as we speak, he's in danger...and I can help him." Georgia said with a smile.

Concern flashed over Ernst's face for a second before he instructed his aide Laszlo to check the flight-tracker, Laszlo went over to the laptop on the table and turned back to Ernst. "The plane is on-course to land in New York." Laszlo spluttered.

"Control'll have Agents at every door in whatever airport he lands in. With my algorithm, I can send a coded message to him...but only I know the passcode." Georgia blowed a lock of pink hair from her face, as her mouth twisted back into a smile. She knew what Ernst's real plan was, kidnap Georgia and bring her here to have her killed, but now (if Ernst believes her story) she's made herself vital. Invaluable and not the subject of his suspicion and questions.

Ernst's eyes snapped to Laszlo, then back down to Georgia. They knew what they had to do now. "Where is the algorithm? We searched your phone and found nothing." Laszlo grunted, impatient as always to get what he wanted in times of crisis, he would lose the cool edge that he had an hour before now.

"It's in my apartment, but only I know where it is." Georgia offered.

"And you think this is worth keeping you alive? On the contrary, Mr Laszlo can easily lead a recovery team to your abode right now, while I send you off for some forest execution." Bortnikov said sinisterly.

Glancing back at the Ukrainian, Laszlo walked away to collect Newport's phone, and came back with both her handset and what looked like a decently sized computer chip. Most likely the propagation module that Barnett made.

"Wait - the algorithm - you won't know how to use it without me!" Georgia pointed out while Laszlo placed the module into a faraday material lined-package.

Ernst took a few seconds to register what she was saying "I'm hurt, truly. Not the deception so much as the naïveté...of someone I thought had a ounce of potential." Bortnikov mused, now ushering his guards to shove Georgia towards a screen that was implanted into one of the massive servers that bordered the hangar.

The screen wasn't large, but angled in the correct way so that Georgia could see the image that flickered into life.

It was her, on the transit bus in Bern again, seen from the eyes of a camera at the back-corner of the vehicle, Georgia could be seen conversing with the athletic woman. Watching her, Ernst's chuckle bounced off the walls. "What of this woman? Did you feed her the story about the dissatisfied worker at the callcenter? Or did you tell her the truth...there's no audio so we can't know for certain. But I'm sure I'll tell Chekhov the former - if he asks what reason I had for killing you." Ernst raised his hand the air and Laszlo suddenly appeared at his side.

"Have your best men take Ms Newport out into the outskirts and make sure she doesn't return, meanwhile you can retrieve her coveted algorithm; while I take my leave." Ernst instructed, motioning Laszlo out of his way as he marched with purpose towards his laptop - closing it with an aggressive hand.

Being pulled backwards by her rope-tied hands, Georgia tripped over herself and fell down to her knees, now being dragged towards the slowly opening hangar doors.

Pleading for the life of the innocent woman, Georgia held back her captors long enough "She means nothing to me! She's just a stranger!" Georgia passionately yelled.

"In that case; this becomes a far simpler matter. After Mr Laszlo is done raiding your apartment he will find this 'stranger' and eliminate her too" Ernst sneered, holding his laptop under his arm as Georgia was pulled towards a black SUV that was parked outside the airport hangar.

From what she briefly saw of the outside world, they were still in Bern, but the rain had stopped and now a fleet of storm-clouds looked to be rolling in.

Pushed towards the SUV, Georgia had one last glimpse of light before a sack was shoved over her head - totally eclipsing her vision.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 17th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

FAC APLH SC 020 - 19:57:26

From one of the webcams facing forwards in the main control room of the Steiner, the main screen was lit up with the bright white light of Samaritan's interface. With the technological noises surrounding him, Murrow was alerted to an incoming message by a field operative.

Smiling with a huff of breath, he requested it on-screen and turned back to the monitor when he saw the opening boxes and graphics of the interface displaying the person in question.

— **ASSET ACTIVE —**

FUNCTION: **OPERATIVE**

NAME: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

 **INCOMING COMMUNICATION_**

Soon enough, the image of a woman in her twenties or thirties appeared, with long blonde hair cascading down to her shoulders, darker at the roots with hints of brown at the tips and streaked across the long locks. Her eyes layered in makeup with a sultry gaze, she eyed the camera in the obvious airport picture that needed to be updated. Admiring the photograph that was a representation of Martine for now.

Beside Murrow was Kersey, who wore his newest chrome-grey suit and maroon tie. Folding his hands behind his back, Kersey listened as he saw the communication alert flicker in and out as Martine's voice came through the hidden speakers of the main monitor. "We've arrived in DC, I've sent Callahan to scope out the target's home, meanwhile I will be infiltrating her place of work." She reported, her voice having more calmness and less arrogant confidence than normal.

Though their target wouldn't be home for the next few hours, Murrow knew why Martine had tried to ditch Callahan early. She wasn't fond of the deeds that ended her career with Decima, so any reminder was a large and open wound in her armour.

Something that Martine naturally couldn't allow, so she had let the big lug take a hike for now, so that she could clear her head and get some real reconnaissance done.

Undercover as a pair of Homeland Security Liaisons, Samaritan had forged them new names and occupations so that they could have access into Spencer's place of work, the White House. As the President's Press Secretary was set to leave to Albany soon, Martine and Callahan had to act fast to retrieve her and bring her to the Steiner for conditioning.

"According to her computer, she isn't due to leave DC, just like Sykes said. She's staying here." Martine fed back to the base, speaking as if she was reading something. Of course they couldn't see what was happening, as Samaritan still showed the Asset communication screen on the monitor. Right now, Callahan would either be searching the house or prowling around it, looking for blind spots and places without any cameras or surveillance equipment.

Since the hacking of the White House late last night, the intranet hadn't been fully repaired and with the President out of the country, the staff had been slacking.

Which made it all the better for Martine as she was easily able to slip in and out of rooms without much fuss. Including Ms Spencer's Office as her computer was enterable and full of the needed information.

Informing Martine to continue the intelligence-gathering mission, Murrow was alerted by Kersey of a visitor. The door swung open as a briefcase-carrying man walked into the room.

Murrow held a hand out slightly to Kersey, silently telling him to keep working as he greeted their guest. "Agent LeRoux, from your tone when we last spoke I'm guessing that the NYPD denied you access to their secure files too?" He began, as Samaritan's FBI mole stormed into the room.

Obviously angered, the hot-tempered man shook his head "That's why I've come back. Has Samaritan dug up anything from the deeper files?" LeRoux looked at the main screen again, basking in it's white and red glow and humming in pleasure at the sight of Martine's smirking mugshot-like image.

Knowing that the Police were most likely suspicious of him now, he'd have to wait a while before he could return. If he did want to head back into the Precinct, he'd have to have a much better reason.

"In all fairness, the Captain acted more aggressively than I anticipated, she might as well have arrested me in broad daylight if it wasn't for my badge. I can divert resources to remove her?" He suggested with a tone of lethality, his hidden and deadly temper rising to the surface.

However LeRoux was soon cut off by the cool and coldly smooth voice of the Admin, Samaritan's Primary Controller, who strode into the room escorted by two guards.

Taking wide steps, Greer held a Rothschild's Cigar in one hand and a silver lighter in the other - dressed in a pinstripe two-piece suit - he was flanked by a blonde muscled strongman called Kove (Or **ASSET / / 1984** ) and a dark-eyed man that was identified as ' **ASSET / / 671** ' by Samaritan.

Greer's opening words were directed to LeRoux, who gulped audibly when seeing his superior. "I'm sure that situation will resolve itself, right now there's only one man on the planet of any value; and that's Lars Rasmussen." Greer resounded.

Taking delicate time to avert his attention from the room, Greer lifted his lighter and flicked it open, the flames flickering in the darkness. Lifting it up to the tip of his cigar, he waved the flame around it for at least ten seconds, heating up the end of the cigar before placing it in his mouth and giving the end a final taste of flame.

Puffing from the cigar, Greer approached the middle of the room as his shadow was cast over all of the Analyst's screens.

Describing his situation, LeRoux came forward and presented his briefcase, unlocking it on the nearest table, he showed the inside which was full of the standard legal documents, even photographs and screen-captured pictures of LeRoux meeting the captain and her two detectives.

"Unfortunately such law Enforcement branches are so antiquated these days. The world needs structure, Agent LeRoux - and humanity needs guidance, lest they wind up destroying themselves. Samaritan will provide both in the future at least, negating the need for these idiotic Precincts." Greer continued.

A natural feeling of wisdom coming from him, the old British man took another puff of his cigar and let the smoke rise into the tall rafters.

Personally; it couldn't come any sooner for LeRoux and Kersey. Both had been let down and passed over by their intelligence agencies, so a fresh start with Samaritan wasn't that far away from Martine's own past. Her Origins with the UN taught her something at least; that the world cannot be fixed, only changed.

LeRoux closed his briefcase and stood with it while Greer met Murrow and Kersey. Smiling when he saw Martine's face on the screen, it reminded him of the current operation that Samaritan was carrying out.

"How fairs Mr Hayward? I hope our resident interrogator isn't pushing him too hard." Greer referenced Thorndyke, who had begrudgingly been assigned to contain and monitor the subjects that Samaritan requested for reconditioning.

"We've implanted another chip in him, so hopefully he doesn't turn into a slobbering vegetable anytime soon." Kersey remarked. On an Analyst's screen, the camera changed to the view of a operating theatre and inside was Cayden Hayward himself, slumped in a small chair.

Greer planted his free-hand on the top of the computer "A little brain damage is a small price to pay if we can turn Mr Hayward into a valuable servant." He said with purpose. Watching from his position beside LeRoux, Murrow nodded slowly. The former paratrooper had a good concept of loyalty thanks to his own origins and his loyalty to Samaritan couldn't be questioned.

Diverting resources recently, Samaritan had been working with the ISA and it's own Assets to help combat a growing terrorist threat. On one of the screens at the side of the room, Greer's guards stood by a wall-mounted television that normally displayed a global map, but in this case it showed a incoming news report. As Kersey and Murrow stayed behind to continue speaking with Martine, the Admin and LeRoux advanced towards the screen.

"After another supposed leak from the NSA, even more state secrets have been released to the public. Leaking a classified government report, the report revealed black-budget items connecting to several mass cover-ups by the CIA concerning the murders of foreign intelligence agents, murders that were apparently carried out by CIA Operatives on US soil."

The news anchor spoke into the camera with a monotone voice, as the background behind her showed a blurry image of Fort Meade and then some inconspicuous papers.

This wasn't the first time, earlier today another leak had come from the NSA, linking to the hacking of the White House and the shutting down of several power-stations.

LeRoux viewed the newscaster with curious intent "This can't be Samaritan's doing, right? These guerrilla tactics are typical of our enemies." He guessed, knowing that the ASI wouldn't corrupt it's own side without cause. But who could perform such an action so quickly? Only the processing power of Samaritan would be able to sustain such an effort. LeRoux didn't mean the terrorists that Control dealt with, though, he meant another group. Team Machine.

Doubting that they'd risk exposure on something so large-scale, LeRoux stroked his chin and gritted his teeth, later being assured by Greer after his silence was noted by the FBI informant "Do not worry...everything is proceeding as Samaritan has foreseen." Greer chuckled to himself as he stepped away.

Walking from the room, his guards were quick to follow. "I suggest you return to Washington, Agent LeRoux, we'll have need of your services soon enough." Greer finished, having his bodyguard Kove open the door for him. Being left with the fleeing shadows, LeRoux was given a crass look by Kersey, who clearly wasn't impressed.

FAC ALPH HALLWAY 021 CAM 3 - 20:05:38

Walking out into the hallway, Greer was followed by his two bodyguards. Passing the other control rooms and monitoring labs, he held the cigar in his fingers as he took another smoke of it, keeping it in his lips for a few seconds as he walked. Taking it out again, the muscled figure of Kove was soon at his side "If LeRoux becomes a problem, I could have my men disappear him." He suggested in a gruff voice.

In his previous life, Kove was a great leader of men, an instructor in the US Navy Seals, a Commander involved in many strikes in Afghanistan; but on returning to the American mainland, he lost his purpose. Then Samaritan gave him one. Now, Kove worked closely with Greer as a squadron leader and training expert.

Moving from one corridor to the next, Greer was dismissive of Kove's vague threat to LeRoux. "We need men like him, the FBI and other agencies serve us well...and we require as many soldiers as possible for the coming war." He argued.

Approaching a closed doorway, a slender black-haired figure passed them, accompanied by a straight-faced and serious Male. Gesturing back to the doorway, Weiss was dressed in the typical dark Asset uniform.

"She's doing very well...I'll admit. She's already translated Claypool's notes and adapted the UI, with any luck Samaritan will be prepared for another digital strike against the Capital in about an hour." Weiss informed them.

Stood in the hallway, Weiss was being escorted by Cinder, his squad-leader. Around them, the Steiner's purpose was still evident. It was an asylum first - Samaritan's HQ second. For the most part, patients were crammed on trolleys and wheeled past them, others tended to by Doctors and Nurses. Each of them lay on their back, strapped in- eyes toward the naked fluorescent tubes that flicker as though they would switch off any second.

The pale yellow walls are deeply worn by the sides of the metal trollies, the drywall showing though like white scars. The confined space magnifies the movements and comm-chatter through the walls, the nurses have heard it all before and were immune by now, hardened by repeated exposure to Samaritan and the general over-work.

Cinder glanced to the closed and bolted door, her eyes showing malice and jealousy in one look. As if she feared what was beyond that door and of course, she'd hate whatever she'd fear.

"Splendid, make sure our teams are prepared if any new threats arise." Greer encouraged. Weiss took the order without any reaction or question, marching down the corridor with Cinder behind him, her expression now hidden under her sharp curve of hair.

Reaching the door, Kove and the second bodyguard unlocked it together as Greer re-lit his cigar, watching the smoke trail from the end, Greer smiled as his bodyguards waited outside the room. "Leave us." Greer commanded.

FAC ALPH 077 - 20:07:14

Stepping inside, the room could have been confused for a cell in solitary confinement. Padded in white and soft material, the room's only feature was a single metal chair, which was discarded.

On the floor sat a figure, holding a laptop, they typed furiously as Greer entered and the door slammed shut - but the figure didn't seem to notice. The only features that could be seen was a prisoner's white gown, milky and scar-covered skin with dyed hair that was a jet-black flecked with dark blue. The figure's body was thin and wiry and had their back turned to the Admin once he arrived.

With the cigar in his hand, Greer's wrinkled and weathered face looked down to the female figure with a proud gaze. His voice began to echo from the cell's walls as Greer walked around the figure's body.

Pacing around, Greer took his time while speaking.

"Congratulations. You did what I always thought you could do. You succeeded, now here you are. Nazarov would be so proud. Everyone closed the book on you - they thought you were done...but now they see...that the real story's only just begun. Mr Finch can have his team...but wait until he meets ours."

Lowering his head to down at the woman with the computer on her lap, Greer's smile grew as he took a final puff of his cigar, letting the smoke leak into the air, he uttered her name "isn't that right, Georgia..."

From the ball-like camera's view, Georgia Newport wasn't known by that name anymore. To Samaritan she was simply-

 **ASSET / / 030**


	30. Chapter 30: Brotherhood

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: NOVEMBER 17th 2012

LOCATION: NEW YORK CITY, USA

RIVER CAM 10 - 21:59:33

HUDSON RIVER

CHANNEL 14

 **ACTIVE VESSELS: 32**

Years ago, back before the ice breakers - the Hudson River would freeze over in winter. All the way across. It looked quiet, silent, dead. But it wasn't. It would be only hidden for a while, so after the winter period it would roar back to life, the water flowing so fast that an unwary man could drown in it's wake. Here, the waterside didn't look that deadly.

Link's contact had come through at last, a meeting was arranged and Floyd had agreed to go with them. The bayside was empty at this time, so it was a good choice for a meeting spot.

It was Link, Evelyn Floyd and a few of Link's best men, old friends of his that were happy to provide support. Dressed in her torn jeans, a heavily worn shirt and a hooded jacket, Floyd stared out into the river as Link prepared his backup. Making sure that the area was covered and the packages were safe, the terms of the deal were simple. They had delivered six pounds of high-margin Meth with at least a fifty-pounds of rock cocaine in hard blocks. All stacked in the back of Link's truck, his men guarded it with stone-cold faces.

Waiting was the worse part, as often you could never tell if the other party was late on purpose or late by accident. Sometimes it would have been both. The spot was far out of the way of any cameras, the only possible thing to post them would the implanted cameras on the other side of the bay, as previous checks had confirmed that there was no watching eyes in this spot. Something that Floyd considered deeply.

This 'Dominic' must have been smart, Evelyn could feel them being viewed even now, not by any CCTV or Spy, this was something else.

Garcia and his Trinitario friends had declined to help, making sure to honour their deal with HR before becoming affiliated with any other gang. From what Link had told her, apparently Dominic had extended a hand to any other gangs and groups, staying away from Elias and HR, other rival cartels and crime syndicates had shown interest.

Unloading the two small trucks that they had brought with them, Floyd was still stood at the side of the riverbank, her ankle-high and buckled boots on the rising concrete slope near the water.

Hearing Link's men removing box after box of hard drugs reminded her of her own history with the mysterious Elias. She had heard that some 'Man in a suit' rumbled one of his operations and put him out of commission for a while; leaving duties to his right-hand, the deadly weapon of a man known as Scarface.

Handling large white crates one by one, Link's men moved them out into the open and stacked them up, awaiting the arrival of Dominic. Link told them that they had enough and instructed everyone to keep their distance once Dominic's motorcade arrived.

They were under assurances that Dominic himself would be coming, as Link knew that a deal couldn't be solved without the boss on site. For now they waited, it felt like hours before anything came near them at all.

Their meeting point was far away from any common New York traffic, it was easier to see when a vehicle was coming, which was true in this instance as a fleet of headlights started to advance towards them.

Driving down the dirt-like path and towards the end of the bay, the cars were a shining jet-black, each one of them must have been holding at least four guys as the doors opened on the truck-like vehicles (which were actually Hummer H2s, fitted with bullet-proof glass and hidden weapons caches)

From the Hummer in the middle of the pack, the doors opened up wide. Stepping out first was a pair of firearm-wielding thugs, classic muscle for a job like this. The next two figures were more unique.

The first man was dark-skinned and tall; possibly the tallest man that Floyd had ever seen, large legs supported a bulky upper-body and the frame of a modern giant. His head was slightly smaller than the rest of his body, but he possessed a rounded chin and a clean-shaven face. His hair was short and his eyes were nearly hollow in their darkness.

The giant's friend seemed more cautious, he wore a chest-holster under his jacket and had a small beard of trimmed black hair. He had a flat nose and a short neck. Link stepped forward first as the other vehicles began to reveal other bodyguards, men wearing slim body-armour and carrying sub-machine guns and handheld Uzis.

"You' Dominic?" Link asked the giant stranger, who had a cluelessly dumbfounded expression as his friend tossed a nap-sack at Link's feet.

"Dominic couldn't make it, he sends his regards...and compensation." The giant told them while Link knelt at the sack, unzipping it to reveal methodically stacked clumps of cash, smiling, Link didn't seem to mind the absence of the upcoming crime-boss now. Despite the fact that his appearance was apart of this deal, which made Evelyn even more paranoid.

The giant introduced himself as 'Mini' a Chief-thug and ground-level enforcer. The man beside appeared to be one of Dominic's suppliers and intermediaries, should any occasion arise when Dominic himself isn't available.

Their men began to spread out on the bay and started to close in towards the small group of backup that Link had brought with him. Floyd's hand began to hover around the Beretta m9a3 that was snugly tucked into one of the folds of her jacket.

But her companion remained calm as he indicated to the van of drugs and weapons. "We've honoured your offer, six pound blocks of chalk, but if Dominic isn't here...then I don't see why we should deal with you." Link goaded, giving a smirk to Floyd. Now wasn't the time to push his luck, as the shorter man folded his arms "I wouldn't piss us off, kid. I heard...that you used to work for Elias?" The giant man's friend retorted.

Link suddenly grew sheepish. He closed his eyes and winced for barely a second before replying "Yeah, I ran drugs - and Floyd here, she was his safe-cracker." He admitted, even pointing over to Evelyn who had been silent for this whole time.

It was probable to assume that Dominic knew about their history with Elias already, but was simply toying with them by sending his Captains and perhaps rejecting their deal.

They had been standing there for too long without anyone making any moves. Mini raised an eyebrow as Link held one of the sizeable blocks of hard drugs "We heard that one of Elias's lieutenant's got murdered...Copperhead." He said her name calmly and Floyd had hold back her shudder. His voice was deep and resonant, but with some undertones of a fine culture and an education.

Mini then locked eyes with Evelyn, but luckily Link's antics resumed as Dominic's representative continued "In order for this deal to go ahead; there's one thing we have to discuss." Mini offered.

Still holding the block of cocaine, Link moved the bag of 'compensation' money over to Floyd, who inspected it briefly before putting it behind her to protect it. "Okay. I'm listening." He offered them the chance to carry on as Mini's troops began to flank them from both sides.

"Copperhead's murder. It followed a heist for twenty five thousand dollars, that is the figure that was initially stolen, right?" Mini's companion started to interrogate them. Floyd wasn't sure what they were after now, justice for Copperhead or the money that had been hidden. Because neither would get them very far since they were both in the same place.

"That's right, I think. What do you know about it?" Link responded, his thumbs under the belt-line of his slacks. He was protecting Floyd, who still hadn't spoken yet and was being oddly quiet. Maybe she just didn't want to bring about any suspicion among their company. Mini had another glance of skepticism towards her. "We picked up two of the group already, Ike and Meech - they're with us now." Mini admitted frankly.

Evelyn's friends; people who helped on the heist and as far as she knew - the only other survivors. Would they really have taken the side of Dominic? If what Mini said was true, then they were picked up quickly by the rising street-gang. It must have happened shortly after the heist.

Now the motive became clear, Dominic was after their heist-group. But for what purpose? He could have easily hired someone else if he had a job, besides, Link was more interested in leaving Elias and joining Dominic's group than any other matter.

"You want the rest of the team?" Floyd spoke out of turn, stepping forward into the path of the gangsters.

Everyone's eyes went to her for that second, even Link turned around to warn her of coming forward with the truth; she'd become a target if she declared that she was apart of that heist. But the warning didn't come soon enough as Evelyn took centre stage in the meeting, coming from the background and standing in-between the two groups.

Mini nodded to allow Floyd permission to continue "I was the safe-cracker on the job, I took the money after the Cops busted us...and I killed Copperhead." She confessed.

After admitting it, Mini's friend grew a little more respectful, not even finding any words to reply with as Mini himself spoke instead. "Then we have our deal again; tell us where the money is, we take your stash here-" He pointed to the cases of drugs and weapons "And we'll give you protection and safety from Elias."

A promising offer, Floyd judged it as Link went over to one of the boxes of drugs, hauling it forward with the help of his men, it was dropped near enough to the team opposite them. Mini's companion went first, accompanied by at least three other thugs. Opening the case, he was confronted by stacks and blocks of many types of substances. Picking up one to inspect it, a smile slowly formed on his lips.

He hummed in delight as he saw the boxes of weapons inside Link's van. He inquired as to the content of those boxes the moment he noticed them.

Link looked down to the squatting man "Barrett XM109's, we jacked them off an old NYPD lockup site a while back, they're supposed to be going to Elias...but I thought they'd sweeten our deal." He cooed, much to the happiness of Mini's friend, a black-market dealer called 'The Armorer'

"Oh, they have." The Armorer confirmed. The Armorer's main thug (a golden-chain wearing man clad in a black hoodie) took the first box of drugs and moved them along to another enforcer. Mini gave an impressed glance as Floyd moved out of the way of transfer. The thugs moved the crates as Link's own men removed the boxes of high-caliber sniper rifles. "The drugs - are they clean too?" Mini asked.

Stepping away, Floyd glanced down at the crates of drugs and substances as Link explained. "Yeah, we had our guy in Albany cook up a fresh batch, it should be top of the line, inspect it if you want but I'll vouch for him." Link spread his arms wide for a second as if to show his tale's legitimacy.

Mini went over to the nearest that crate that was unloaded, he didn't get down, simply staring at the box. Seconds later, it seems to have passed his unspoken test "Load em' up." He ordered, then his men obeyed.

Transferring the crates of drugs into the back of their Hummers, Mini's followers started to grab the boxes one by one and move them away, piling them into the trunks of the vehicles. As Link and Floyd watched the last of the crates be sealed away, their own van now seemed empty and sparse. The Armorer moved back to Mini, who flicked his hand, which was the signal to retreat.

They headed for their cars as Link jogged up to the gigantic figure "Yo, Mini - we done here?" He didn't even get within two feet before The Armorer backed him up, grabbing the Jericho 941RPL from his chest-holster.

Floyd stepped in, placing her hand gently onto Link's arm. Hearing the commotion, Mini turned around slowly.

"You two need to come with us - we've still got someone we've gotta meet." Mini addressed, about to step back into his truck. While Link's men looked concerned, The Armorer had already moved the boxes of weapons away from his clutches.

Reassuring them, Link gave a fist-bump to his closest supporter "We'll be fine, Modeley, you guys head back to the apartment, meet you soon." Link assured them, to a group of nodding heads and slightly worrisome faces.

As Modeley and the rest of Link's crew prepared to leave, Floyd felt uneasy near the likes of The Armorer and his array of handheld weaponry that was stuck to his person. Luckily the representative was riding with his own group in the largest of the Hummers, the one that carried all of the weapons and drugs. Meanwhile, Mini invited her to join him in his own vehicle just as Link walked over.

"So where are we heading? Another meet-up?" Link guessed, wanting more than ever to meet the elusive Dominic now.

"In fact; we are. We need to the check if your drugs are legit, so we're handing them over to a professional. But you've gotta be there, in case you've sold us nothing but crap." Mini spouted. Clearly not believing the story about the cook in Albany. So, this was the great Dominic's plan, send his goons to pick up the drugs and guns - have them inspected - and should they fall in value, have the providers killed? Quite the business model, Floyd thought.

Getting into the vehicle, Mini rode shotgun alongside a driver. In the back was Link and Floyd, who strangely weren't searched like every time they entered a car with one of Elias's goons.

The car soon took off from the meeting point as Modeley and Link's gang were forced to stand and watch. Mini told the driver the address and the convoy exited the docks just as Mini asked his driver for someone called 'Lennox'

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 17th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: NYPD 8th PRECINCT

BULLPEN CAM 22 - 20:18:03

Flipping his work-phone down and putting it back on the table, Kane rested his head in his hand on the desk, thinking and pondering. He often dwelled on obscure facts and perhaps certain areas of data to explore that weren't relevant, he hadn't been given a good case to work with since HR, but after Carter's death and Fusco's isolation he had been doing nothing but mulling around the police station.

So, he could have thanked thank god for the aggressive FBI Agent who came storming into the precinct without a warrant and started to make demands of the police Captain. LeRoux, that was his name.

The Captain had assigned Kane on an investigation into the Agent and his activities, trying to find some lead on him.

Having checked the CCTV around the Precinct, he had found a clear path that LeRoux must have walked down, having clocked him leaving the building while talking on his phone. Following him through the view of the cameras, he had disappeared from view as soon as he went out of range of the final camera at the corner of the building.

Getting permission from Moreno to search the interrogation room's cameras, he found no evidence of any misconduct there either.

Despite the Captain's account of their meeting and her shaky suspicions, Kane was doing his best to find some iron-clad proof. So far, he seemed perfectly legitimate.

Grabbing his phone off his desk suddenly, he had remembered that Detective Carter often worked with the FBI on many occasions. Perhaps she left some contacts behind? Her desk had been empty for a while now after HR's fall and no one had come to replace her.

Men like Detective Harrison were new, but they could never have replaced Joss Carter.

Holding his phone in one hand, he stood from his seat and went to look around her desk, everything had been cleaned and wiped already. But searching the innards, in the chests and draws, that's where he found a lead.

Carter had been working with two FBI Agents already; Donnelly and Moss. Donnelley had been murdered during a hit-and-run, so it was up to Kane to contact Carter's trusted Fed friend.

Relaxing back in his chair and holding the documents that Moreno had found on LeRoux (A service record, date of birth and mission log. But even they were vague)

All that Carter had was a business card of a SAIC, Brian Moss. But it was a contact and far better than what he had about five minutes ago. Typing in the number, Kane waited as the ringing became an annoyance.

Moss wasn't picking up. He tried ringing again, fortunately, this time he had success.

"Agent Moss. How can I help you?" The plain-sounding voice opened with. Looking at his own stubby fingernails, the Detective opened the preprepared files he had secured from the Captain "Good evening, I'm Detective Kane of the NYPD, I'm just wondering if I can ask you a few questions relating to a Investigation Case I'm working on?" He requested.

Moss snorted "If this is about Alexander Declan, then I don't know anything, only that I'm not talking to any NYPD Officers after Beecher-" He stated aggressively, but Kane quickly got in the way with a stuttering comment, wanting to move Moss away from that subject.

"This isn't about that, I'm talking about your fellow FBI Agent, Martin LeRoux. Do you know him?" Kane saw Captain Moreno lingering near his desk, as she held something bronze and gunmetal black in her hands.

The Fed made a noise of confirmation. "Do you have any reason to consider that one of your Agents may be going rogue?" Detective Kane opened with his own argument. Coughing in initial disbelief, soon Moss grasped what Kane was trying to tell him "LeRoux? Sure, he's always had anger issues, but he's been missing his reviews on the daily and apparently he's visiting someone during his patrol hours." Moss moaned.

"He's never said a word for most of his life, his career too - he's been dead set on moving down to DC so he's been meeting with a lot of extra-government officials recently." Agent Moss commented.

Kane rubbed his chin, glancing at the Captain before he replied. "Government officials like who?" He inquired.

This was a better line of questioning, this could get him somewhere. It was possible that LeRoux got his information on the SEC Officer from someone else. How else could he have had so much hidden NYPD information? The Captain had told Kane that the man that LeRoux talked to her about was corrupt anyway.

The man (Douglas Rasmussen) was responsible for the short sale and later collapse of Tritak Energy and after a team of assassins, which was mentioned in the NYPD's report and theorised to be hired by Douglas, failed to kill the broker who was able to undo the damage that Douglas and his partner-in-crime Paul Ashton caused, he was arrested by Police later. He got out on bail and was found to have committed suicide in his own apartment in Queens. 'Open and shut' Moreno called it.

Agent Moss was still on the phone and replied promptly, with typing sounds in the background.

"From his attendance log, he's been meeting with the Office of Intergovernmental Affairs." Moss told him, reading off a document. Honestly, Kane didn't have any idea who they were, or where their office was. He naturally asked for the same documents that Moss was looking at.

"Well, from what I can see here...he recently met with the Senior Advisor and Director of Special Projects, Phillip Hayes." Moss told him. Kane was getting close, if he had enough evidence that this office and this person provided LeRoux with the needed information, it could crack the case wide open.

But he hasn't forgotten what Moreno had told him, the FBI could have been looking into the media-baron Lars Rasmussen. A Danish National, no less. So a intermediary Office would seem like the perfect place to discuss and conduct business.

Perhaps LeRoux went there for more information on his target. "And where is this Office located, Agent Moss?" Kane asked finally.

Moss took a breath "Washington DC, in an office building across from the British Embassy." He described. Thanking the Fed for his help, Kane put down the phone and stood from his desk just as the Captain came forward to lean on it.

The FBI hadn't issued a statement following any investigation into Rasmussen, so it was obviously LeRoux acting on his own accord, maybe with the help of this Mr Hayes.

"You'll need some support out there." She encouraged. Moreno was a short woman, with dark hazel brown hair, a navy police blazer and a gold necklace clasped around her throat. She had a tough yet forgiving face as she puckered her lips into a pout when Kane spoke "In all fairness Captain, you assigned me to this case - and I'd like to work it alone." He decreed. Though he knew he shouldn't have.

Going alone was the downfall of Carter against HR and Fusco against the Man In The Suit. But Kane knew that he didn't want to risk Detective Harrison or Officer Silva from IA. Even Detective Walsh couldn't cover for him now. This was his case.

Packing his badge; Moreno still had something for him. Holding an item, she planted it down on the table.

The bronze and gunmetal black item was a pistol. A Smith & Wesson 442, with a bronze and brown handle, a black barrel and crooked hammer. "If you're not gonna accept help, then at least carry two guns." Captain Moreno warned him.

He took the revolver and stuffed it into the pocket of his blazer, along with his holster and the standard Glock 19. Fixing his badge to his belt, Kane straightened up his tie and hid the revolver.

The Detective quickly received the documents on LeRoux's meetings through his phone. He'd have to head down to DC by car, unless he could find any evidence of LeRoux meeting an official from Intergovernmental Affairs recently.

Soon enough, after about three or four minutes of looking for a second name, he found one.

'Caroline Wheeler' was a Staffer and met with LeRoux and Phillip Hayes several times in the last few weeks. Luckily she was based in New York, at an office just across from the New York Stock Exchange. If he could question Wheeler, it could bring him closer to Hayes - then LeRoux's motives in looking into Lars Rasmussen.

From a ball-like camera, Samaritan assessed the situation, a shift in it's improved interface brought up a new classification system as Kane exited the building.

KANE, RICHARD J

DETECTIVE

 **STATUS: POTENTIAL DISRUPTOR**

 **ACTION: MONITORING_**

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: JANUARY 5th 2006

LOCATION: Meshchansky District, MOSCOW, RUSSIA

PRECISE LOCATION: LUBYANKA SQUARE - FSB HEADQUARTERS

OFISNAYA KAMERA DESYAT - 11:54:02

This reunion had been dreaded for months. The Special Activities division of the FSB has been thriving, but now it had the yearly evaluation, it's representatives had been called for a celebration.

In the receptionist's office, the mood was dull and cold, just like the weather outside, the harsh winds of a leaving Russian winter. The room where they waited was impressive but not elegant, with assorted chairs, some comfortable - some upright with padded black seats and carved backs - prints of country landscapes on the walls and foreign magazines neatly arranged on large central cherry wood table. It could have been an Office all to itself, but it was simply a waiting room.

It hadn't changed either, Chekhov noted. He had brought his best men for this celebration.

All dressed in their most formal of outfits, Chekov wore a dark grey two-piece suit, his second-in-command (a silent ghost known as Janus) wore a black shirt with a matching leather jacket and tie, tucked in place by a single pin. They had brought one of their most promising students with them, an up-and-coming Agent called Ivan Petrov.

Unlike the two men he sat next to, Petrov was youthful and kind, with blonde hair and gentle brown eyes. A perfect set of teeth flashed when he smiled at the receptionist - who strangely smiled back.

Janus stood from his chair, holding the gift that Chekhov had brought his colleagues. Today was Director Usenko's retirement party, so he had summoned the leaders of all the major FSB divisions to one place. Security was tight, as two uniformed men guarded the doors with silenced handguns.

His student Petrov was tapping his finger on the arm of the chair, so Chekhov told his friend to once again calm down. Chekhov smiled at him and checked his watch - only a minute to go until they're expected.

Petrov was wearing a blazer, a patterned shirt and dull blue shoes. With disdain, Chekhov looked up at the box-like camera, the hate growing for the newly installed watching-eyes all around them. With such power over surveillance, a question arose of who exactly was getting the government feeds? He pondered this in the short seconds before the Director's door opened.

They were summoned by the Deputy Director's Aide, with the receptionist mirroring his words. Standing up, Chekhov took charge of the men, Janus followed behind and brought his boss's package that held the Director's retirement gift. Petrov took a final look over the office with curious eyes, before he was pulled inside by Janus's free hand.

Discreetly, Chekhov opened a small capsule in his hands, pulling out two grey pills. Quickly shoving them into his mouth, he swallowed hard before the room was altered to his presence.

Petrov saw a myriad of strange faces and bodies in different-sized suits. The largest of all of them was the Director himself; Usenko. He was a stout man, with a freshly shaved beard and wrinkled features, he spoke with a weighted accent and wore several KGB and FSB pins and badges on his navy-suit's lapel, along with a wealth of medals that were stuck to the other side of his blazer as he limped towards the three of them.

Instantly drawn to the foreigners in the room, Petrov saw two clearly CIA men, who were introduced as Agent Bell and Supervisor Emerson.

Both of them were silent and nodded from the background of the room as their names were called.

Beside Usenko were a gang of security, who instantly removed Janus of his package. With bottles of liquor and vodka opened and on the table, the elderly Director invited the men to sit and drink. Chekhov, however, recommended his own liquid of choice.

"Sir, might I suggest my own liquor? It would be a shame to not share such a thing, especially alongside our friends from the CIA." Chekhov smiled genuinely. From what Petrov was told, these two CIA servants weren't the ones that killed Vanzin. Still reeling from the loss, Chekhov could be seen smiling and laughing now, but inside he was something different.

Without men to train the new operatives, mercenaries like Janus were drafted in to cover training, while Mr Chekhov took the role of self-styled Director. Agreeing, Usenko requested that the package carried by Janus be opened and the gift shared.

Also at the party was Usenko's modern successor, Deputy Director Lukin and his Aide, Patrushev, beside them were three more security personnel.

Near the CIA men were the Combat Operations department, lead by General Arnulf Salko, a respected military-man. Escorted by his personal Doctor, Silas Netzke.

The General had been having health problems since he had turned sixty, so now Dr Netzke had to be around constantly, just in case.

The General was white-haired with a drooping jaw and large cheeks, a high forehead and a small, beady brown eye. The other eye was a off-white shade, obviously glass and made many years ago. As Usenko and Chekhov opened his gift with the help of his stewards, Ivan couldn't help but listen to Salko as he reclined in an armchair.

The elderly General was talking to one of the CIA men, while he spoke in a heavy Russian accent, his vocabulary was amazing to listen too.

"Not much frightens me, except chicken. The enormity of their flat brains, the enormity of their stupidity is just overwhelming. You have to do yourself favour when you're out in the country and you see chicken - try to look chicken in the eye with great intensity. But the intensity of stupidity that is staring back at you is just amazing. They have a fiendish stupidity, a bottomless stupidity. But it comes with a great innocence, no one thinks anything of chicken. Because it is simply chicken." Salko said wisely.

Opening the wooden box, Usenko was heard laughing gallantly and loudly at whatever was inside, clutching it, he showed it to the room - but keeping it close to his chest "RussoBaltique! The finest Vodka in the world." Usenko admired. He wasn't wrong, this brand was at least seven-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars a bottle. Made from solid gold. As his stewards and waiters handed out glasses, Chekhov took his without hesitation.

One was handed to Usenko, the Deputy-Director, the men from the CIA, the General, his Doctor and some of the Guard's Captains.

Petrov showed interest, but his hand was quickly snatched away by Janus, who shook his head slowly. Usenko waited tactically until Chekhov's shot-glass was filled. Raising it up, General Salko stood as the Director prepared to make a toast.

"Now - join me in a toast. To friendship, to comrades - here and gone. To good vodka, music, and Leo Tolstoy who said 'if you want to be happy; Be'" Usenko finished. Waiting for the man across from him to down his drink.

Holding it out in front of him, Chekhov toasted and downed the drink. Smiling wide, Usenko followed, then Lukin, the CIA Liaisons, then the General and his doctor.

Lukin's aide didn't get a drink either, so Ivan could sympathise. Taking a breath, the Director slapped Chekhov on the back, congratulating him on his efforts with a booming new division.

Moving past the Director to sit down, Chekhov went sad all of a sudden, he frowned when he turned away and found a seat near the back of the room. Leaving Petrov and Janus at the mercy of the Director, who's eyes lit up when he saw the promising young man.

"You must be Chekhov's man! It's a pleasure to meet you, welcome to the FSB." He opened with. Ivan wondered what hate Chekhov could possibly harbour for this jovial man.

Going to a stereo at the side of the room, Usenko flapped his hand in the air "Let's get some music in here, huh? What do you think this is; a funeral?" He stressed to his bodyguards, who rushed to the stereo.

His Deputy followed after putting down his glass along with Patrushev, then they gathered in front of the stereo. Janus remained in the background - but Petrov was convinced to join them.

With their boss sat down, one of the Director's Captains sauntered over, a slick bearded man called Anatoly who wore a tactical vest under a suit-jacket.

Anatoly leant on the empty chair next to the sulking Chekhov. He was recognised as one of the men who held down Chekhov after Vanzin was shot at point-blank range through the head by Agent Mark Snow.

"Cheer up Vladislav, we had to spank you." He referenced with a stinging smirk. Anatoly leered at the man next to him, chuckling. "What choice did we have? Once every ten years or so, you forget your place. I'm sorry about Vanzin, but there's no place for emotion in this. The Kremlin doesn't allow it." He stated as the Director started to raise his voice from the side of the room.

He was singing. Taking to the middle of the room, he spread his arms and began to sing the opening notes and words of 'Korobushka' or 'Korobeiniki' as the room slowly began to take part also. General Salko clapped along to the beat while Lukin smiled and folded his hands behind his back.

"You, of all people should understand. Business is business - we can't take chances." Anatoly goaded. Standing from his chair as the Director sang, Chekhov buttoned up his blazer. Speaking Russian, Chekhov asked to be excused.

"Where are you going?" Anatoly asked, as the two uniformed men stood at the doors and approached Chekhov. Ivan noticed the commotion and stepped over with Janus by his side, as he reached for something at his back. But Vladislav soon had an excuse ready "To use your bathroom, if I may?" He said politely, without loosing his decorum.

The Captain huffed and instructed one of his men (called Korenev) to take Vladislav to the bathroom. The Director continued singing as Chekhov was walked to the toilets.

Entering the pale and white-tinted bathroom, Chekhov stripped off his blazer and turned on the tap by twisting the faucet. Walking to the toilet, he opened the seat and heard the music coming from the Director's large office. Taking a towel from a nearby rack, he placed it on the floor before kneeling. Grabbing the back of his head with one hand, he took a breath before bending down into the toilet bowl, jamming his finger into his mouth.

He would describe the vomiting as a kind of purging, as now he felt compelled to do it.

He had reached his fingers down his throat to force himself to throw up. Then whatever he had eaten an hour before now would surge up Chekhov's throat and into the waiting toilet bowl. Chunks of partially digested carrot and steak spewed out of his coughing, choking mouth. Most importantly, the yellow-tinted vodka. His stomach kept on contracting violently and forcing everything up and out.

When he was done, his face was white and dripping bile. Once he was finished, he used the same towel to dab at his mouth in the mirror. Coughing like he had swallowed a razor blade, wincing at the disgusting pain it caused him while his mind swirled and span, like he rode on an infinite round-about. Lurching forward out of a reflex, he would have nearly hit the sink if he didn't brace himself on it.

The pungent stench invaded his nostrils and he tried not to heave even though there was nothing left to leave him.

OFISNAYA KAMERA CHETVERTAYA - 12:29:08

Still listening to the singing of Director Usenko, the General had been conversing with the CIA Supervisor at the back of the room, while the Deputy Director fetched a box of cigars for the room to share. Supervisor Emerson looked like a fair and average man, with a slender body and a sharp face. He wore circular glasses and had a checkered tie around his neck. As usual, the General was seconds away from bursting into a monologue as Supervisor Emerson asked him a reasonable question, of which Salko took as an invitation.

"How many languages do you speak, General? Your accent is very interesting." Emerson waited for the reply, crossing his arms.

"Not too many. Russian, English, Spanish, German - I spoke some modern Greek better than English once when I was on a mission in Larissa. But that's because in school I learned Latin and Ancient Greek, so from Ancient Greek to modern Greek, it's not that far. I do speak some Italian and I can understand French - but I refuse to speak it. It's the last thing I'd ever do, you can only get some French out of me when you've got a gun to my head."

"I was once taken prisoner in Africa and driven to the encampment on a truck, all the soldiers were drunk, some of the younger ones were stoned, I believe. One of them had a Kalashnikov on me. I tried to explain that they've got the wrong man but the Commander shouts at me; he says 'on parle français ici!' which means 'we speak French here!' so I had to tell him in French. I regret it. I shouldn't have done it..." Salko told him.

Back with the Director, he was smiling at Lukin's cigar box as he offered a crass nod to Ivan, who had found himself a chair to sit in. Selecting the largest cigar from the box, Lukin was eager to please his boss "I believe an exception to the no-smoking policy is in order here." As he flipped the box closed.

It was small and wooden with a golden imprint in the top. "Named after the Lebanese Warriors, whose undying bravery had a lasting impact on the Russian soldiers...over fifty-thousand rubles a box." The Deputy-Director explained.

Grinning, Usenko was going to light his cigar in his hand. Until he stumbled, struggling to find the concentration to apply his lighter to the cigar. Was he too drunk already? He dropped the cigar, and got the attention of the room. Anatoly moved from his chair and was about to reach out an arm to help.

From out of nowhere, Janus sprung on him with a fibre-wire he had unhooked from his pocket, grappling the Russian Captain around the throat, Anatoly spat and struggled as Janus mercilessly landed a knee or two into the man's back.

Suddenly, all around Ivan, men began to drop dead. Doctor Netzke collapsed to the ground, followed by a few Captains, both seated and standing.

Janus still throttled Anatoly from behind with the thin wire, making him wheeze and struggle, coughing for breath. Before Ivan could realise what was happening, Supervisor Emerson and Agent Bell had both hit the ground, along with General Salko and his bodyguards.

The golden Vodka. Chekhov had poisoned the vodka. That's why Petrov and Janus didn't have any. Finally finishing Anatoly with a brutal snapping sound, Janus dropped him to the floor and pulled out a slick silver and black 9mm Makarov PM handgun from Anatoly's back pocket. Raising it in the air, he fired three shots in quick succession into the ceiling.

Panic quickly fell on Ivan, as he darted around the room - witnessing Deputy Director Lukin fall to the ground, crashing and colliding with the table before going limp.

SEKTOR DVADTSAT' KAMERA - 12:36:03

Hearing the rapid gunshots from the other room, Korenev drew his silenced P-96 semi-automatic pistol from a holster at his hip and marched towards the commotion.

Slightly opening the door, Chekhov peered out, now fully dressed again - he noticed that his guard had disappeared. Deciding to re-enter the office of the Director, he took a pleasant stroll, hearing suppressed gunfire followed by a volley of bullets, a grunting noise followed. A grunt that could only mean death.

As he walked towards the office the way he came, he saw men and women - most likely receptionists and staffers - running away from the scene.

Entering the room, Chekhov stepped over Korenev's bullet-ridden body. Seeing Janus standing over Anatoly and Ivan in the background amongst the bodies of his FSB supporters and Generals, even the CIA Liaisons were prone on the ground and in their seats.

The only survivor was Usenko, who coughed his last as he leant on a table. "You...you!" Usenko bellowed as Janus rounded on him, a firm hand gripping the Director's shoulder as Janus plunged a switchblade into Usenko's chest.

Blood squirting from the wound, Usenko fell to his knees and then collapsed forward onto his face. "Get a gun - quickly!" Janus yelled to Ivan, who searched Agent Bell's body and pulled out a SIG-Sauer P230. As Chekhov straightened and dusted his blazer, Janus snapped his head around to a noise in the corner.

Ivan aimed his gun at the noise. Patrushev. The Deputy-Director's aide. He didn't drink the Vodka, but had been hiding in the corner ever since Janus attacked Anatoly. He fretted and threw his hands in front of his face, cursing and murmuring to himself. Patrushev pleaded for his life, but strangely, Chekhov didn't order his immediate execution like Janus expected.

"Director Usenko is dead. Your master, Lukin, is dead. You have no one left to work for. You can fill your pockets and you can leave in peace. Or you can fight me...and die - or...you can work for me; become Director of the FSB following this tragedy, and I will make it that you never come to harm again." Chekhov declared.

Patrushev mulled it over, holding himself in the corner. He wore a simple and plain suit with a FSB pin, similar to what Usenko wore on his lapel. Ivan and Janus kept the barrels of their handguns trained on Patrushev as he got to his knees.

"Director? You can promise that?" He asked desperately.

"I can." Chekhov replied, as Janus covered the entrance and Ivan patrolled the room.

Patrushev was surrounded by the bodies of his employers, with a new one staring him down. Nodding, Patrushev stood to his feet, and shook the hand of the man opposite.

Now smirking, Chekhov got the attention of his steely enforcer, Janus, who walked over and swiftly knocked out Patrushev with a strike from his concealed baton. Knocking him clean across the face, Patrushev fell to the ground. Then Janus flipped the weapon away as Chekhov moved towards the exit.

Following as quickly as he could, Ivan covered the escape of his employer and moved to the doors. Chekhov next moved to his phone "Tarasovich, it's done. We'll rendezvous in Bern as agreed." He said as they exited the hallway, leaving their servitude to the FSB behind.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

 **ACCESSING SECURE FACILITY...**

DATE: AUGUST 18th 2014

LOCATION: JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA

PRECISE LOCATION: 9 MAIN STREET, MEREDALE, JOHANNESBURG 2091

ELEV 02 - 09:48:39

Standing in the metal cage of an elevator, the walls were a shining steel, reinforced with a bulletproof mesh. A sensor read the detailed numbers and barcodes on his ID-card, verified them and activated the elevator. The doors slid shut and the elevator fell to the third sub-level without stopping. This was the playground of the scientists.

The doors of the elevator opened and through walked two of Samaritan's best, followed by an ageing blonde medical nurse and an operative known only as ( **ASSET / /228** ) to Samaritan. The ever-besuited Jeremy Lambert had just received a communication from Murrow at the Samaritan Headquarters - the Steiner Mental Asylum. The man beside him was Arquette, who had escorted him from the entrance of the prison which Samaritan had selected as the cover for it's VR and biomedical research facility.

Drawing his phone from his pocket, he answered as he walked down the corridor towards the VR generator room. "How's our experiment going?" The commanding voice of Greer began through the phone. Lambert hurried along, his staff rushing to keep up.

"Very well, Sir. My technician Stewart has prepared the virtual-reality generators and Samaritan is busy hunting down the last of the Vigilance members in possession of what we need. The South African Special Forces have detained nearly two-dozen criminals, after Samaritan decoded a host of IP addresses and anonymously emailed them to the press. The world owes Samaritan quite the debt of gratitude." Lambert recounted, as Greer chuckled from his end of the phone call.

Named as ' **ASSET / /401** ' in the eyes of Samaritan, Lambert swayed into the next corridor on his right, with Arquette flanking him as they passed a group of busy technicians. "What of Team Machine? Their whereabouts?" Lambert asked. Speaking next was a gruffer and deeper voice, coming from Murrow the former paratrooper.

"Still unknown, Samaritan can't find them anywhere in the city." Murrow informed him. Remaining hopeful, Greer responded kindly "Patience, Mr Murrow. Have faith they'll return soon enough." Greer said with a sinister undertone.

"What's next, Sir?" Lambert asked, having no doubt that his voice was being turned into a transmission and sent into the main control room at the Steiner.

"Samaritan has been monitoring a disruptor, an NYPD Detective who's flying too close to the sun. He will continue he efforts to disrupt our operation." His voice trailed off for a few seconds "How soon can your technicians initiate a full simulation?" Greer inquired.

Curiously, Lambert had been thinking the same thing for the past few days. "Who's the target? I'm on my way to Stewart's computer laboratory now."


	31. Chapter 31: Washington DC

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: JUNE 15th 2008

LOCATION: BERN, SWITZERLAND

SEC 08 CAM 2 - 20:42:15

Feeling the rumble of the SUV on a dirt road, the silence had been the same the past hour. Only the bumping and rocking of the vehicle and the breath of those inside, it was a tense atmosphere all around. They had been given their orders, and they dared not disobey. Some were staunchly loyal to the so-called 'Shadow Army' the cabal of terrorists and freedom fighters that were combined with enemies of the worldwide government and expert guerrilla tacticians.

One of which was Ersnt Bortnikov and his group of soldiers, part of his own national splinter-cell that he was setting up in Europe. Most of the men in the car with her were his loyalists, hardened mercenaries with a taste for suffering. The car kept travelling down the dirt road, as two hulking shoulders pressed Georgia's body inwards on both sides. A black bag over her head with her hands tied, she was forced to feel every bump and every hit that the road took on the SUV.

Rolling down past the nearest town and into the thick trees, the vehicle hadn't stopped even for a second. They had been driving ever since Georgia was thrown into the back of the car. Georgia had seen one last glimpse of light before a sack was shoved over her head - totally eclipsing her vision.

For the next hour, there was nothing but blackness. She was forbidden from sleeping, as the bumps and humps in the road would shake the SUV every time it collided with one.

In the car were five men, each one wearing a similar outfit of blacks, greys and browns, some camouflage gear and a suppressed sidearm in their jackets and coats.

The night had fell on Bern, with clouds and an evening sky coming in from the horizon. Even behind the blacked-out windows of the SUV, the evening had started to grow darker. The car jumped again when it hit a rock in the road, making the vehicle rumble. Once it pulled into a clearing, the trees formed a circle like the walls of a prison. A confinement that Georgia was already used too as she was dragged from the car.

The door opened and she was pulled out the seats, nearly thrown to the floor in the process, a hand pushed her by the shoulder and nudged her towards the centre of the clearing. Spreading out, the five men took positions around her. The leader of them (Viktor, a Russian/American and a lieutenant from Laszlo's gang) indicated that her bag should be removed. Pulling the sack off her head, Georgia's eyes squinted for the first nanosecond.

Brightness returned to her world as she was faced with three men in her view, and at least two shuffling behind her. Looking down, her hands were tied in front of her by zip-tie cords and her coat had been removed, as she could still see it before Viktor closed the door of the vehicle. Striding back over, Laszlo's lieutenant was dressed a khaki jacket with a fur-rim and a plain black shirt.

Where as Georgia was dressed in a ripped black laced-up corset, a slim lace shirt with worn marks over the elbows and a knee-length skirt. Fishnet tights kept her legs warm in the evening chill as she wore patterned ankle-length combat boots with half the buckles undone in the struggle.

She walked alone into the centre of the clearing as Viktor and his four men surrounded her - Viktor clasped his hands together in front of him as he pulled out a suppressed Beretta Nano.

His four companions all had the same weapon as Georgia reached a stop. Viktor was the first to raise his handgun with one hand, aiming it between her eyes "Laszlo told us to execute you...but we don't have to do that...yet. We can have fun with you first - hold her down" Viktor rasped.

He sheathed his pistol in his chest-holster and everyone around him pulled out their own - aiming at Georgia as two of the men came closer.

They grabbed her shoulders and she buckled at the knees, dropping to the floor with little resistance against the men. She couldn't think of any words to say, why should she? This wasn't her fight, she had followed Nazarov because he was good to her, he was proud of her and he looked out for her.

But Laszlo, Chekhov and all his army were ruthless, they didn't have motives (or any clear ones) they just thrived on the chaos and anarchy. That was their goal, to create panic and from that panic they'd install fear in the hearts of Americans.

Viktor approached her slowly, his steps crunching on the forest floor, approaching her, getting nearer and nearer. Still on her knees, Georgia's eyes slowly glanced up at the man, his patched skin of different tones and his face of stubble and growing facial hair. Swaggering up to her, he had a sickly smile. He was wordless, like the harrowing nature of his actions would he speaking for him.

Since she was held firmly, it was easy for his men to shove her down as much as they liked, pinning her like a helpless dog for the slaughter.

Going to her body, Viktor knelt and started to reach down into her skirt, her hands cold at first touch, Georgia couldn't fight it. If she moved, she'd be instantly gunned down by Viktor's friends that surrounded her. Closing her eyes for the pain as she heard a zipper being undone, it would have happened so fast, and she would have been useless to stop it. Viktor's body started to lean down to hers - like a horse in heat, he breathed hard and slow, his body shaking in perverted energy.

Suddenly, Georgia whipped around, taking Viktor by the back of his neck, she grabbed his Beretta Nano from his chest-holster. Pulling him close, he grunted in pain as he was now just a human-shield, his soldiers fired into him - making his back explode with bullet-fire.

Georgia moved her arm around him, firing back, she hit the closest thug in the chest, and another in the head. Two down, two to go. She rolled out from under Viktor, pushing him away as she plugged another man in the face with a suppressed bullet. The last soldier dropped his weapon as Georgia got to her knees, aiming the silencer directly at his head.

He pleaded with her "Please, don't do this! I have a family, I have people that care for me!" He quailed. But Georgia got to her feet as she could still hear Viktor writhing in pain. She raised her hand, indicating for something to be thrown into her fingers. "The keys. The SUV keys" She demanded, and the blubbering man reached into his pocket and threw her a set of silver-black keys, which she caught without effort. "I have friends, you know - I have people who love me!" He began begging again.

"Don't worry, so did I" She replied as she blasted him in the chest two times, making him rock with the bullet's force as he fell to the floor with a squeal. Seeing Viktor crawling on the ground, about eight or nine bullet's in his back, he was bleeding from the chest as Georgia walked past him emotionlessly, pulling her skirt up. Blood gushing from the holes in his chest from the shots that went through him, he didn't speak, only mumbling curses and fumbling on the ground.

Georgia still held a pistol in her hand, and wielding it - she wheeled the barrel around and pointed it to Viktor's head just as he spewed and let loose another torrent of blood from his mouth and chest.

The moon had been shining down on them as the light showed the many holes in Viktor's body, where his own men had riddled him. Georgia took an ounce of pity, as the man that had tried to rape her seconds ago now wallowed on the ground. "What's your plan now, Newport? Kill me, reap revenge on Chekhov?" He spluttered, halfway through another blood-soaked cough as a bullet likely pierced his lungs.

Georgia huffed "By no means, Viktor. We are all people without a country now, these concepts we hold so close to our hearts...I realise they have no meaning. Why should anyone lose their life for something illusory?" She remarked. The man on the floor rolled over, showing the many empty passages through his body. "You never cared before, Georgia. You just wanted to win the game, we all did. In killing you - I was just playing the game" He coughed. The tattooed and scarred girl fixed the sights of the pistol to Viktor's head, the car keys held firmly in her other hand.

"I know; and this is just losing" She blinked, and fired a shot. In pulling the fateful trigger, she had gotten rid of another problem in her way.

Walking to the car, Georgia used the keys to unlock it and jump inside, still carrying a loaded pistol, she found some more boxes of ammunition under the seats, and a few maps. No doubt used to find this dirt-road and clearing in which to kill her. In the glovebox was a flip-phone, nothing too fancy, just a burner probably owned by one of Viktor's men. After pulling it out, it miraculously started ringing. Buzzing in her hand - she flipped it open.

The voice was undeniably Laszlo "Yermolai? Viktor's phone is off, where the hell are you?" Laszlo fretted, showing some worry in his voice for once. Georgia held the phone to her ear, and breathed gently for a minute, should she reply? Where was Laszlo right now? The last time that they saw each other, Ernst had sent him on a mission to kill the athletic redhead woman from her bus ride.

Then her next destination clicked in her mind - the library. "Viktor's dead. Looks like the situation isn't so simple after all" Georgia finished lethally.

She snapped the flip-phone in two with her bare hands, and tossed the two pieces out of the SUV's window. Starting the engine of the car with the keys, she'd have to get to the Swiss National Library before Laszlo and his men did. She checked the time - they could have already been there. But it was late, and the redhead girl looked like she was heading home from work, so they couldn't track her that easily. She'd have to wait near the library, scope the place out, and hope that the angelic woman would show up in the morning.

Driving away from the widely spread group of bodies, Georgia put her foot down as the SUV rumbled back up the dirt path, and onto the paved road again, out and towards the lights of the city. Once she reached the nearest pocket of civilisation, it was hard not to think about all she's done as she was on her way to save a woman that she'd only met once. But it was her connection to this stranger, it was something honest and good - far beyond her contacts in the Shadow Army.

With the open road now revealing itself from the trees, she hid the handgun at the bottom of her passenger's seat. Driving down at some speed, she'd flinch at every light that passed her, not knowing if Laszlo had changed his target and gone to find Georgia instead after she threatened him over the phone. She knew that Laszlo didn't fail often, in all his years of service to Chekhov. Georgia wondered how a former FSB Section Chief had so many ties to organised crimes and businessmen who deal in such things.

Reflecting on her own history with Tarasovich, Georgia now turned back to the road, gripping the wheel. Little did she know; her real journey was just about to begin.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 19th 2014

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: THE WHITE HOUSE [U.S. OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT]

WH PERIM 52 - 09:21:08

[THE WHITE HOUSE]

 **U.S. OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT**

OCCUPANTS: **490**

DEVIANTS: **12**

ASSETS: **2**

OFC SECURITY CAM 2 - 09:21:43

In the terraced Office, a pair of delicate hands worked at piles of papers, nails done in a bright blue, and hair left loose around her shoulders. Shelly Spencer was the assistant to the White House's Press Secretary. While her boss was on a trip to Albany to meet the remaining members of the Illinois Machinist Union, who had rallied in strong support of a new anti-surveillance bill. The recent and mysterious death of Congressman Roger McCourt had sparked rebellion among the ranks of the Union, who held a protest just outside the White House days ago.

The protest, combined with the recent power outages had more than complicated things. The building was now swarming with FBI officials and their prying interests. Shelly had heard rumours of the ISA or better known as 'The Activity' also arriving with some haste. Shelly had been working on arranging some of the busier files and workplace documents - it had been a busy week for her, and she just wanted to return to her home by the afternoon.

The President's Chief of Staff, Mike Richelli, had issued several statements to the staff, stating to simply carry on and ignore the Federal agent's presence.

But even that was hard to do as she couldn't predict if the Feds were tapping her phone or the cameras in her room. If they had access to every email, phone call, or message that she had sent. All accessed with a few lines of computer code from the NSA. It was a bigger weapon than any firearm in the hands of the Secret Service.

The FBI's Director was convinced that the threat was internal, someone in the Staff was sabotaging the power-grids to mask information theft.

There was no paper trail, so it had to be from the computers. All hardware was wiped and placed on shutdown, so most of the cameras were barely functioning, only the most important ones, around the Oval Office and Press rooms. Shelly passed over a few reports before getting an ink-stamper from the draw beneath her arm. Stamping on papers and approving documents, she heard the bustle of civilians outside, another protest? She convinced herself not to look.

Outside her office was a view of the shrubbery and the grounds of the White House, then a tall black-iron fence. With many bars and high spikes at the top, it kept the crowds of people outside the building and at a safe distance. As Shelly turned to her computer, she heard a strange metallic clicking noise, and then a clunking sound as something switched off.

The camera - from it's upright position, the box-like camera fell limp, the blinking red light slowly shutting off. At once, the door to her office opened.

The round face of her secretary came through the door, Marvin, his resonant voice blasted through the room. Dressed in a fitting sweater and dress-shirt, he adjusted his glasses "Ms Spencer, your nine-thirty-AM is here" He informed her.

For a moment, her face was awash with confusion, then flashed with partial worry as the door opened further and a shapely figure came through, she had lean and thin legs like a bird, but with an inch of muscle. Her upper body was taught, wearing a dark blouse and light-tan blazer, she had high cheekbones, a small curving nose and a voluptuous chin and jawline. Her eyes were a soft brown, gleaming in flecks of gold.

"This one's rather important - it's Alicia Cabrera - a pleasure to meet you" The stranger said, approaching with a file under her arm. She shook Shelly's hand as she stood, confused. Alicia wore a visitor's badge and had a shield tucked into her skirt - NRO. The declassified 'National Reconnaissance Office' the agency in charge of anti-terrorism tactics and providing national feeds and information to the rest of the USA's intelligence community. They shook hands, and Shelly thanked her secretary. Nodding swiftly, Marvin shut the door with a polite sliding motion. Now stood in the office; in front of her desk, Alicia blinked twice, flicking her eyes up and down Shelly.

Quickly, Shelly established a basis for inquiry "I don't have a nine-thirty-AM, Miss Cabrera. Am I in trouble?" She wondered, her voice halfway between fear and defiance. She hadn't committed any crimes, yet she felt like pleading her innocence.

Alicia (Martine Rousseau: under alias) directed her attention to the window, placing her thin file on the desk. "Take a step this way, Ms Spencer" Alicia requested. Doing as she said, Shelly saw a line of protesters and tourists. The sign-wielding men and women shouting faint mumbles at the building.

All the while, Shelly slowly began to sweat. Moving a finger to adjust a straw-blonde lock of hair, Shelly breathed a sigh of sadness "What am I looking at?" Shelly asked, despite the obvious. Hundreds of civilians, cars, and buildings and shrubbery in front of them. The black metal fence separated them, as well as about two-hundred meters of ground and grass. "Look out the window, see that SUV?" Alicia's head tilted, her bright-blonde ponytail swaying to the side. Sure enough, the NRO Agent was right, at the other side of the street on Pennsylvania Avenue was an all-black SUV.

Seconds later, a large besuited man stepped out the vehicle. Clasping his hands together, the bald man admired the waves of tourists. The driver of the SUV was faceless, wearing face-eclipsing sunglasses. The bald man was burly and unloving, as his face was stone-cold. "If you don't come with me in the next four minutes, that man in the street will begin shooting pedestrians" Alicia revealed. A shot of heat and emotion went through Shelly in an instant. Was she even serious? The threat remained in the air, Alicia turned her head back to the window, a wristwatch on her forearm ticking away.

"What do I care about some random people? You're a terrorist, and I think you're bluffing" Shelly replied sternly. She wouldn't give in to any demands, but she'd rather that they kill her than any innocent. Martine had cunningly placed Callahan and three other armed men near the most populated area, it was the best place to maximise casualties, should Shelly deny her request (of course, if she wouldn't come willingly, Martine had sneaked a taser into her side-pocket)

Alicia hummed, staring out in the massing group of people. "Oh I think you care. As a matter of fact I think you'd rather die yourself than see one of those people hurt" She replied, folding her arm as her eyes didn't waver from Callahan. Her hands rubbing against one another, Shelly breathed again coldly, her heart's pace getting faster and faster. "What you think doesn't matter. If your man so much as opens fire, then the Secret Service guns him down seconds after" Shelly bargained, looking at Alicia as she dared not look away.

The enigmatic woman's eyebrows lifted, then dropped back down. It was a gambit, but she could easily run it. Martine's eyes shifted back to Shelly, in her cheap pant-suit and identification badge, she was under-appreciated, underpaid and overworked. Maybe with Samaritan she'd actually make a difference. "If they get to him in time. Do you really want to risk it? One way or another we're gonna know how you really feel about the people you say you serve" Alicia provoked mockingly, as Callahan reached inside his overcoat.

Martine checked the watch on her wrist as it clicked "You have thirty seconds" She started plainly. By now, Callahan was joined by one more of Samaritan's soldiers, a former Navy Seal called Margolis (Or ' **ASSET/ / 1339** ') He had a plain face, beardless and ordinary, with his only noticeable feature being his blank, sky-blue eyes. Stepping out the car, Margolis spoke into his wrist-wire and moved his hand to the back of his belt-line. Now mere milliseconds away, Shelly bowed her head "I'll go with you" She conceded, dropping the phone in her hand.

The phone clattered to the ground, and Martine placed a thin finger on her earpiece "Negative, we're good here, target's coming with me" She relayed to the men outside, who started to shuffle away from the street and back into the car. "You know, a small part of me was hoping that she'd let us start shooting" Callahan piped through into her earpiece. Martine ignored it as she escorted Shelly out of the room, faking an excuse to the secretary as Samaritan watched through the ball-like camera in the main office and waiting room.

"Where are you taking me?" Shelly asked with a frightened inflection once they were alone in a corridor. Hearing the SUV speed off from the street, it would come around to the front of the grounds where it'd pick up Martine and Shelly. "To a place where not even the President of the United States can find you" Martine whispered dangerously into her captive's ear. The straw-blonde woman shivered in fear as Martine flanked her once they got to the entrance, the car waiting for them.

Driving away, the Steiner was informed in moments as Shelly watched the last five years of her life fade away into the distance. Now she'd be converted, much like Gabriel Hayward. But unlike the Analog Interface, Shelly would be placed back into her job, left to return to her place of work - with complete loyalty to Samaritan.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: NOVEMBER 15th 2008

LOCATION: The Bronx, NEW YORK CITY, USA

SIDE ENTRY CAM 6 - 23:57:15

A large metal door was suddenly being raised on a ratchet. Cranking, the door raised higher and higher to the ceiling. On the other side, a car's engine rumbled. Then, the sound of shoes moving, walking and long strides. No more than three people at most, one leading and two flanking him at each side. The car was parked in front of the doors, and was slanted slightly sideways so the passengers could step out and have a shorter walking distance to the side entrance.

The warehouse had been rented via the usual shell-corporation, this time being Turndale Technologies. Walking into the empty warehouse was a sharply dressed official, Decima's Chief of Staff, and his two attendants and bodyguards.

The venue they had selected had been a former laundromat, and was now a dormant rice-factory. The corrugated iron roof was domed some twenty-five feet above them, like a shanty-town cathedral. The boxes of rice and grain were piled high at the far end of the massive hall-like building. At the other end were the packed sacks of grain ready for distribution. Most of the boxes and crates were stamped and packaged already.

Jeremy Lambert eyed it with distaste, turning his nose up at the smell. The broken tarmac around the boxes was empty except for a rusty forklift – it must have been in use again, just like it was some years ago. There was something new however, a chain-link fence surrounding the warehouse was linked together with a moveable iron gate.

Lambert wore a deep purple suit-jacket and slacks, a dark ocean-blue shirt and checkered tie, he marched forward with a swagger as the men behind him scoped the area. His most trusted Supervisor - Bryant - and a darkly-dressed guard called Carlson.

The limousine that had brought them there soon drove off, out the electronic gates and leaving the men to their meeting. But the group had already formed. At the other side of the warehouse stood four people, three standing, and one on their knees with a bag over their head. Lambert approached them as his men followed.

WAREHOUSE CAM 03 - 23:59:52

The three figures at the end of the warehouse were all different, one was heavyset and massive of stature, but had skin as pale as milk and a shining bald head. The figure next to him was a woman, thin, with boney limbs and a combed fringe that swept past one of her abyss-like eyes. Going down on one knee was a fox-faced gentleman, a leather chest holster holding at least two firearms, Agent Drake whistled as Lambert approached.

Carlson clasped his hands behind his back as Lambert cleaned his blazer, straightening his tie, he blinked down to the bound and tied stranger on their knees. Whistling sweetly, Drake stood just as Lambert gave him a vicious glance "Did your scout teams find him?" Jeremy asked. To that, Drake only shook his head in silence, closing his eyes.

The retrieval hadn't worked on the rooftop, and they had been chasing the traitor for long enough. In response, Bryant stepped forward and cleared his throat "Virgil has done a full sweep, and he couldn't triangulate his position or track his IP" The Supervisor reported from his side of things.

Agitated, Jeremy stroked his beard. His eyes drifting to the prisoner, the heavyset man pulled out a Heckler & Koch P30L with one hand and pulled off prisoner's bag with the other. Aiming the pistol to the woman's head, Lambert observed their hostage. With a small face and full, smart brown eyes, she had flowing brunette hair that was streaked and highlighted with an ash-like grey at it's tips. Wearing a dirty yellow flowery blouse and blazer atop of it, she had a black formal skirt that went down to pleasant work-shoes and thick tights.

Elyse Holloway was quite picturesque indeed. She glanced up at Lambert, and noticed the burly man pointing his pistol at her.

Callahan wasn't taking any chances this time, he wouldn't give her any chance to fight back as Jeremy evaluated her wounds. "I guess you didn't see us coming?" He joked poorly, seeing the cuts and scrapes on Elyse's face. Dressed in the same outfit she wore when she was kidnapped - they had barely kept her alive for the better part of a month. But her brother had gone completely off the grid, so she was dragged out of confinement to help find him.

Remembering the night in the Rylatech Plaza, the night she was taken, Elyse would still get waking-nightmares about it. She'd remember the man stood beside her now, standing in front of her with muzzle of a gun in her face. She thought they were her protection sent by her brother, but she had learned that her brother had betrayed Decima, and was on the run.

Not that she could do anything about it, but these men seemed to think that she could. "If you're looking for Leighton, I don't know anything...like I've told you before" Elyse's voice was smooth and clear, unlike her brother's New Zealand grovel, she had a crisp and sensual sound.

Working on his research, Virgil had uncovered that Elyse was raised in the USA, and got a job working in Rylatech's logistics Section, mostly thanks to her brother's contract with Decima, and his history in New Zealand's Special Forces. "Your brother has scrubbed himself from every databank in America, but I'm struggling to think of what he's after. I initially thought that he was protecting you, but clearly that's not right" Lambert smirked, looking at Elyse, who was held in elaborate zip-ties and knots.

With no trace of their parents or any other relation, it was getting harder and harder to find Holloway. The best way that they could draw him out was a clear statement of intent, something that he couldn't ignore or avoid.

"I admit...my superiors would much prefer you dead, but we need your brother alive, and we can't get to him without you" Lambert maintained. Elyse struggled in her restraints, and spat at Jeremy. He recoiled, stepping back "I don't give a shit what you need! I don't know anything!" Elyse yelled, before she suddenly had two guns drawn on her.

The other woman in the room was Cinder - the mute assassin. A woman of few words, she held a suppressed Kimber Warrior handgun in her grip. Dressed in a hooded jacket and plain shirt, jeans and ankle-length boots, Cinder had a chest-holster strapped to her body as Drake joined the side of Lambert. Back on the rooftop in June, Drake and Lambert had Leighton cornered, with nowhere else to run. Just as he escaped, Jeremy had ordered the combined forces of his best assassins to eliminate Holloway's sister, somewhat in retaliation, but also in revenge.

But seconds before the bullet was fired, Lambert had second-thoughts. He grabbed his radio and put a stop to the kill-order, commanding that they take Elyse prisoner instead.

She struggled against the zip-ties and ropes again, her hair falling in many locks around her eyes and shoulders "I don't know what to tell you, I just-" She grunted as Cinder smacked her around the head with the butt of her pistol's handle, making her buckle and nearly drop to the floor, Elyse's hair swung with her. Lambert gestured with a hand for restraint "How about you tell us where your brother is hiding" He demanded.

She continued with the story that she didn't know anything. Mixing her pleas of innocence with blunt insults, she grimaced at Cinder and Jeremy. But if she didn't know anything about where he was, then why would Leighton have appeared at the Rylatech Building? Maybe he planned to check in with his sister after so long away from her. Or maybe he was protecting her from Decima, and Virgil had found him at the right moment.

Lambert scowled, then his phone began to buzz from his blazer-pocket. Stepping away, he instantly recognised the calm tone of the Operations Director "How goes the questioning?" Greer opened up with.

"She's told us nothing, if she's been quiet this long then she may be telling the truth. But so far, we're caught at an impasse" Lambert grumbled. Responding in kind, his superior wasn't at all fazed by the development, as if he knew that she'd never talk to Decima willingly.

If it was up to Lambert, he would have left Elyse behind long ago, but Greer wanted to keep her to potentially draw out Leighton. "We still have uses for her - one of the recruits in Bryant's unit. She could do with some practice in the field of interrogation" Greer replied.

Lambert pressed his flip-phone to his ear and raised an eyebrow. "So you think she's lying? I'm starting to believe that she truly doesn't know anything, Sir" Jeremy responded with a hushed tone. Turning back to the gathering, he glanced at Bryant before his boss chuckled loudly through the phone. "You think she could be broken by a recruit? If she didn't crack in front of Callahan, she won't crack in front of any recruit" Jeremy retorted.

But Greer had a special recruit in mind. Someone who's been trained by The Hague as an Investigator, someone raised in the harsh streets of The Bronx and someone who's learned the ropes of Decima from the smartest and the best. Becoming well-versed in firearms and combat through Decima's training techniques. "Have faith, Mr Lambert. Have Ms Holloway transferred to our base on Wall Street, and report back to me at Gantry Plaza" Greer finished, cutting the call off. Turning back to the group, Jeremy sauntered towards them.

"We're moving out. Cinder, take Ms Holloway to the Exchange Place, and make sure she's bagged and give her a change of clothes at least, no doubt the Police are already looking for her. The rest of you can seal this place off, no evidence, no spots of blood. Call the cleaners, and pay them well" Lambert commanded, spinning on his heel as he was followed by Bryant and Carlson, with Drake some steps behind as the two assassins stayed behind to summon the cleaners and move Elyse from The Bronx back down to Manhattan.

Bryant had a stoic look on his face as he pressed the button to raise the door again, as they heard the metallic clanking, and Lambert saw fit to congratulate him "Well done, Bryant...your recruit is moving up in the world" He goaded, his eyes growing wider, and Bryant knew immediately who he was referring to. Bryant was always the most loyal Supervisor, and he often produced loyal soldiers as well as results.

Apparently the recruit had already seen enough action, as they participated in the attack on the Office of Special Counsel. So if Bryant's recruit was as bold and intelligent as Greer said they was, then Elyse would soon be in for an awakening.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 19th 2014

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

GARAGE CAM B - 14:52:27

Slamming down another box of evidence and files, Detective Walsh wiped his brow and shook the hand of his friend, Richard Kane. Detective Kane had been working on the Rasmussen Case for at least four days now, and arriving in Washington DC, he was in the process of cracking the case.

Staying in the house of his sister and brother-in-law, he was using their garage as his place of work. Having the resident Police and FBI provide him with some intelligence and spare boxes.

Placing the last of the boxes atop a workbench and tables, most of the case-files were stamped with the word 'COPY' in red lettering. "Captain Moreno said to tell you that most of files might not have the index numbers, I could give you a hand sorting through them though" Walsh placed his hand on the table as two more boxes were brought in by beat-cops. Outside the garage was a sedan, the boot open, the car was escorted by two guys from the FBI - including Agent Moss. Kane checked the serial numbers in the boxes before giving Walsh the all-clear.

"No, I'll take it from here. Tell her not to worry when you back to the Precinct" Kane replied. Detective Walsh was a grey-haired, middle aged man with a polite manner. The two detectives shook hands again and Kane thanked him for the help.

His fellow lawmen gave the thumbs-up to Kane and walked out the garage, meeting the suited FBI Agents, and the eagle-eyed and straight-talking Moss. Hitting the button at the side of the garage, the door began to rattle shut, closing Kane off from the world, shutting his friends out as they got back in the car.

Finding the first box, a casually-dressed Richard checked the serial number again and flipped open the lid of the box. Pulling out the first piece of evidence on the trail - it was a photograph of a meeting between Phillip Hayes and an official from the United Kingdom's Signal Intelligence. Hayes was a short, silver-haired and wrinkled elderly man, who wore a pinstripe suit-jacket and funeral tie. Setting the photograph down, Kane brushed it away to reveal a larger portrait of Hayes. He had a large nose, bags under his eyes and clear signs of age. Grabbing a pen and sticky notes, Kane labelled the pictures quickly.

Finding the next few items, he withdrew them carefully. A portrait of Lars Hugo Rasmussen, lanky and lean, he had a small goatee beard and wore rectangular glasses. A picture of Douglas Rasmussen, Paul Ashton and Adam Saunders, all men affiliated with the crashing of Tritak Energy.

Then finding the online profile of the stock-trading firm that Ashton worked for; Baylor-Zimm - Detective Kane removed photographs of the firm's CEOs, Sydney Baylor and Warren Zimm. Then came images of the Tritak Energy Office and their newest CEO, which included a map of their stock in the past five years.

Pulling out all the files at the bottom of box one, it was mostly over Rasmussen's Media empire, Zenith-Media Corp. Their CFO was documented, Mia Xavier. Mia was incredibly straight-haired, with a high fringe and dark, hazel-tinted eyes.

Next followed a picture of Doug Rasmussen's corpse, and a photo-mosaic of items found in his apartment in Queens. Then was a low-resolution picture of Mia Xavier at a bar with three men. Kane found two more images of the men, one was named as 'Julian Weston' an assistant to Phillip Hayes.

Fetching the infamous document, sealed with a classified FBI and SEC sticker and stamp, the docket was classed as a copy, and curiously stared at by Kane. He picked up a picture of FBI Agent LeRoux, taken at a function or party of some kind, followed by the meeting schedule and records provided by SAIC Moss.

Kane then found a black-and-white image of LeRoux outside the 8th Precinct, on the phone to someone. Checking the list of meetings, he withdrew photos of Ross Garrison, the Senator from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Piecing together the wider case, Kane soon had pictures of several pieces of equipment found outside the Pentagon, hardware and terminal software, including records of the supplier; Zenith-Media Corp. He found pictures of the NSA's new Director and the full book-sized report of 'Northern Lights' a classified and leaked report of all the government's black-budget programs. Named 'Operational support to counterterrorism activities' the huge file was a weight to pick up, so Kane settled with flicking through it every now and then.

Next was images of Phillip Hayes' Staff, including Caroline Wheeler, who was a Staffer and had met with LeRoux and Hayes several times in the last few weeks, according to LeRoux's schedule. Next came mugshots of several men from the LHR Media Group, most likely spies and enforcers. Kane found long-distance pictures of 55 Exchange Place, an office just across from the New York Stock Exchange, and the place where LeRoux had met Hayes, according to surveillance footage.

Stroking his chin and checked the dates on some of the images, he found a couple of pictures taken of Senator Garrison meeting with Lars Rasmussen in a park. Going back to the photographs of Hayes, Kane had pictures of him greeting another man from the FBI, and a dark-skinned mountain of a man; then images of the same man outside a school in New Rochelle...accompanied by Caroline Wheeler. Checking satellite images of the school, and the building across from the Stock Exchange, he then compared the photos and mugshots of people seen at the death of Congressman Roger McCourt.

Kane took a sip of his coffee from a small mug, then stared at an image of the courthouse building that was destroyed by Vigilance, the terrorist group that had captured hundreds of men and women, holding them hostage last year.

Accompanied by mugshots of the group's leaders, Peter Brandt, Niall Jacobs and Susan Jefferson. Including the deceased members, Kane had about twenty to thirty images and mugshots held under 'Vigilance' and stamped with the word 'DECEASED' on top of them.

Reaching into the third box, Kane dug out pictures taken from a drone's camera, images of the LHR Media Group's headquarters in Denmark, and a list of the politicians present at the many hearings and trials that Lars Rasmussen had gone through. Finding not only Senator Garrison, but also Congressman Wright of Texas and Judge Judy Lockwood from the Supreme Court.

Opening the binder placed in the third box, Kane found long-distance images of Hayes meeting with several men, including Martin Baxter, the founder of Rylatech (Which had been bought out by Zenith-Media since his death) removing a portrait of a much younger Baxter with a full head of hair, accompanied by a certificate of a Jewish baptism. Then came a list of employees, including Stephen Kladivo, a Manager in their technology department who was recently arrested.

Checking the Court Order transcripts, Kladivo has been arrested after evidence came out that he spoofed the transfer of thousands of dollars from Rasmussen's banking chain, in an attempt to frame his former employer after Zenith-Media bought out his company. Taking out pictures of Baxter's body, Kane sighed at another suicide. Then checking up on the other employees, most were dead or missing, only a handful still worked in the company. Opening box four, there was a list of Rylatech computers, and a shipping order. The order was sent to a building in upstate New York.

Tracing the shipping order to a mental asylum, Kane stroked his chin as he wondered why a bunch of Rylatech computers would be sent to a psychiatric hospital.

Humming, he pulled out a few more files from the fourth box, which included a profile of another technology firm called 'Greenglade Strategists Inc' which was based in New York City - even providing an address; 3939 Nassau Street, 51st Floor.

Detective Kane placed a note on the file and checked the phone number attached (which he found swiftly connected him to an answering machine)

The company's CEO, Garrett Smith, was also an enigma. Kane pulled out satellite images of the 'Steiner Psychiatric Facility' and a seductive portrait of Caroline Wheeler. Finding images of another building in New York, this time the base of 'HydroCorp' another company bought out by Zenith-Media during it's mass expansion, Kane uncovered images of it's CEO, Ken Davis; a squat and thin-haired man with glazed eyes and round cheeks.

A printed news article followed, telling of how Davis redirect a shipment of six high-powered generators from Kuwait to go to the US rather than Iraq, their intended destination. Where they the same generators transported by Greenglade? Davis was another missing case, not found dead, but presumed so.

After arranging the hundreds of sheets of paper, images and documents, Kane looked back on his work. The mission had become much more blurry now, but his task was still clear - to find Hayes and bring the case to a conclusion. He had ties to all of this, it was a massive web, a network so vast that that there had to be some kind of supercomputer holding this all together.

In the corner of the room, the small security camera that Samaritan possessed assessed the situation, a shift in it's improved interface brought up a new classification system and design as Kane arranged the network of papers into orderly charts and formations.

NAME: DET. KANE, RICHARD J

DESIGNATION: **DISRUPTOR**

 **MONITORING_**

CONTACTING ADMIN_

 _(Author's Epilogue: And so I return! Thank you all for staying by me and offering your support while I take a much needed break to work on things in my life! It's been a while since I've made an Epilogue, but I wanted to take time to thank you for your commitment to the story and your helpful words of encouragement! A few of you in particular have really inspired me! So be sure to stay tuned for more Chapters in the future! So on with the journey. Love, as always, Alongusername x)_


	32. Chapter 32: Endurance

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: DECEMBER 2nd 1999

LOCATION: Ramenki District, MOSCOW, RUSSIA

PRECISE LOCATION: FSB ACADEMY

OFISNAYA PRIYEM KAMERA TRI - 10:19:43

Waiting in the reception room, the space where he waited was impressive but not elegant, with assorted chairs, some comfortable - some upright with padded black seats and carved backs - prints of country and industrial landscapes on the walls and Russian magazines neatly arranged on large central cherry wood table. Straight-backed with cow-leather seating, the chairs were arranged at the back wall of the waiting area. It could have been an lavish Office all to itself, but it was simply a waiting room.

He had been summoned to the Administrator's office of the FSB Academy, on the business of a secret assignment. But he was now more mercenary than agent, going around the different organisations and serving them however he could (with the occasional price, of course) but this one wasn't to be done over the phone. This was a direct commission. He had received a small briefing package and told to come unarmed, which was another rule he didn't follow.

Dressed in a fur-lined brown overcoat and black shirt, his shoes were freshly shined and his britches had many pockets. The meeting was seconds away, but it felt like he was being kept away on purpose. His former superiors, all Section Chiefs of the FSB, had wished him well on the new assignment.

Coming with recommendations and commendations from men like Aleksandr Vanzin and Joseph Kamarov, he had been selected for several reasons. The secretary across from him was hairless, unlike the stubble and coarse whiskers around the face of Nazarov Tarasovich. The Venator.

Tarasovich was grizzled, with a crooked nose and sinister features. His eyes were beady and set close to his nose, which was cracked sideways and looming forward like the beak of a hawk. He had stubble across his chin and a rough mop of dark grey hair on his head, streaked with browns and blacks. His ears were small, and his cheeks were bony and deep.

Annoyed, Nazarov gripped the arms of his chair, while the blue-eyed Secretary filtered through an old desktop computer. Clicking on the keys, she tutted.

He leant forward as the secretary muttered something in Russian, before moving a few books and papers out of the way, getting to a buzzing intercom. She pressed the button as a static-filled voice piped through, Nazarov didn't hear what was said, but the secretary turned a pale finger towards him.

She was direct, a feisty middle-aged woman with long auburn-red hair, styled into a bun atop of her head. Bluntly, she told him to enter the room, and allow the Administrator to talk first. That was the one rule that was held. Nazarov left the briefing documents in the waiting room just as the secretary summoned him.

But when he rose and walked slowly to the room and opened the doors, he didn't see the Administrator at first. He saw closed blinds, tall filing cabinets and drab, brown wallpaper. The room was circular, with two doors at the left and right side, and right in front of him - a soldier. Russian military, by the dark green camouflage clothes and hat slumped on his head. With a large brown belt across his waist, the soldier was joined by three others, all wearing the same clothes as Nazarov slowly stepped into the room.

The figure at the desk was obscured by the soldiers, just as the largest one (With blue eyes and tufts of brown hair around his cheeks) stepped aside, a hand at his waist, while the other men remained in their positions as Nazarov cautiously stepped in front of the man at the desk, who definitely wasn't the Administrator.

"Vladislav Chekhov said you were coming" The elderly man grumbled from behind the desk. Dressed in a navy-blue army jacket and wearing a thin black tie underneath, the medals and badges along his breast and sleeve pointed him out as a General of the Army and Combat Operations department. The General was white-haired with a drooping jaw and large cheeks, a high forehead and a small, beady brown eye. The other eye was an off-white shade, obviously glass and made many years ago.

The General's sleeves were long, as one hand was missing all four fingers, leaving only the pale stumps behind.

The name-badge on his chest read 'SALKO' as the burly old man eyed him up and down. Stepping into the room, the door shut behind Nazarov almost automatically. "What else did he say?" Nazarov continued as he entered the room, the soldiers parting to let him pass.

His partner and friend Chekhov had been trained at the same place as Tarasovich, yet he had become much more successful. Earning the rank of Section Chief, Chekhov had partnered with another of his diplomatic kind to help bring about a new division inside the FSB. Something that Nazarov had expressed interest in and worked for at times, but he wasn't expecting anything too long term.

More importantly, Vlad was a friend. But in his business, friends were always dangerous. General Salko brushed his lapel neatly "He said you were the best in Yary. He said that until a few months ago...you thought he was dead" He coughed.

If only he was. Chekhov wasn't as passionate and caring as his friend. He was often prone to fits of extreme emptiness whereas Nazarov was the victim of extreme bouts of rage and violence. But Vlad felt nothing and said even less.

That was what Vanzin was for, what Vlad lacked, his partner had in spades. Noticing the eyes of the soldiers around him, Nazarov carefully took another step towards the General until he was in arms-length to his desk. It must have been something special if they and convinced the Administrator to take a day off. Normally the Russian military wouldn't assume control of the agency's business. That was the plan when the President set up the various departments and divisions.

Suddenly, the door to the right opened. Out of nowhere, the room became tense, Nazarov's patience was a flickering candle as he withdrew a Makarov PM pistol from his hip, hidden under his coat. From his back, the mercenary took out a double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. Holding the shotgun to the soldiers, the tallest soldier behind him unsheathed a gunmetal grey Tokarev TT-33 and raised it quickly. The man at the other side of the room held a silenced Uzi in one hand. At the left side of Salko, the two soldiers drew Colt M1911s, pointing them up at Nazarov at the same time.

Everyone held steady, as the man entered the room from the right side. Walking in on a standoff, he thrust his hands in front of his face in panic. He was slightly shorter than Nazarov, with jet-black hair streaked and curled backwards on his head. The man was dressed in a doctor's coat, underneath was a formal shirt, with no tie.

He had an FSB badge on the top of his arm, where his arm met his shoulder. With small and circular glasses perched on the rim of his nose, he was a medical official of some kind, he wasn't a fighter or a commando.

Seeing the man's cowardice, hiding away the from the weapons, he cowered away as Nazarov grimaced at the soldiers. "No! No, no - no! Pardon, I - sorry. I didn't mean to alarm" The official pleaded.

Watching this whole affair with a stern look on his face, General Salko stood shakily, gesturing with his stump-fingers to the cowering, flat-faced man. "This is Doctor Netzke. Please excuse his lack of decorum, his enthusiasm outweighs his discretion at times" Salko explained, patting the Doctor on the shoulder, ushering him back. Limping to Tarasovich, the General took a long blink as his guardsmen tightened their grip on their guns. They knew who they were dealing with, the 'Venator' was his old FSB codename, which itself literally meant 'Hunter'

Salko kept his head up "Please lower your weapons" He issued, dropping his eyes to look at the sawn-off shotgun held firmly by the mercenary. Nazarov still held his pistol at the doctor and the larger shotgun at the nearest soldier, the one in front of him and to his left. The men around him started to close in slowly, shuffling to the side to get better angles and better lines of fire. "Have them lower theirs first" He deadpanned while glancing to the men around him.

The soldiers smirked, pointing their weapons to Nazarov. The man holding the Uzi could barely fit it in his hand, he was thinner than his comrades, but as his tongue flicked out of his mouth, Nazarov glimpsed a row of golden false teeth. "We have you four-to-one" The soldier boasted.

"I like those odds..." Tarasovich retorted. Each of the soldiers seemed shocked by his brazen attitude, and his fortitude. Salko looked bemused as he got closer to Nazarov - the General had no weapons on him, so he was no threat. The old man didn't think that he needed any gun or knife as he stepped up to the mercenary. The General's aged face was surprisingly smooth despite his harsh features and his glazed glass eye. He had a crude and plastic black earpiece behind his right ear, a hearing-aide.

His lips parted in a sneer, then a more forgiving look "Section Chief Chekhov also said that you were expensive, very expensive. Please sit" He refrained from letting his men stand down, until Nazarov gave him a short nod.

General Salko raised a wrinkled hand, and the soldiers slowly lowered their guns as the personal Doctor walked to the side of the General. Sitting back down in his throne-like chair, Salko reached under the desk and pulled out a package. American currency.

"What's this about?" Nazarov asked as he sat down in front of the General in one of the smaller chairs, sheathing his weapons. To that, the military legend then produced photographs of two men - one was a pale-skinned, balding and besuited man, the other a dark-skinned army man.

Moving the photographs in front of him, General Salko explained "This is Agent Mark Snow, a CIA handler. His government has become increasingly concerned about South African terrorist leader Obadiah Obanno" Salko pointed to the two pictures, Agent Snow was obviously the prideful man in the first photograph, and Obanno was the veteran, ruthless Commander in the second.

"Although Obanno is secretly funded by the state as a puppet revolutionary, he has begun to attract foreign investment, particularly mercenaries such as yourself, looking for easy money and an escape from the agencies they once worked for" The General then showed Nazarov a doctored passport and credit cards.

They had been made for him, already having the name 'Dean Moran' and fake details "These will get you into the US, along with Agent Snow's help. Should you be needing funds, we can provide you with three million dollars until you get into Kampala, Uganda; the city that Obanno is using as his headquarters. Once there, you'll take the role of his enforcer and assassin, working undercover, you'll be recruiting others to his cause and embarking on several missions to the US and in Africa itself" Salko debriefed.

Nazarov scratched the top of his head and squinted, this was a lot of information to take in. It may have been the most complicated debrief he'd ever sat through, and in the presence of such Russian nobility. "This is a lot of tell for not a lot of show, General. How much is this costing you?" He began negotiating his price, and Salko tilted his head.

The elderly man considered his answer, he had a stillness to him, and a calm that was sometimes unnerving to the uninitiated. "We can offer you five-thousand Rubels as a down-payment, and another seventy-million upon your return. Providing that you deliver us the asset with-"

"Alive. We need the target alive" Doctor Netzke cut off his employer with a concerned glance, folding his hands together as he stood, flanking the General. Nazarov's eyes snapped between the two men. "Yes...alive" Salko yielded, leaning forward over the table, his majestic voice hushed slightly, a mix of many accents and a heavy drawl "But I understand that being a mercenary is a dangerous profession. I have knowledge this will be a complicated job - such being the case...proof of elimination is also accepted for a lower fee" The General growled.

The Doctor shivered, his nose twitching in panic, adjusting his coat, he coughed to interrupt them "That's not what Director Usenko agreed upon!" He worried.

Leaning back, Salko rolled his one working eye. "I was simply being pragmatic, Silas. Do you accept the job - Venator?" The General's breath was slow, as the Doctor's small gasp was hitched in his throat. Nodding, Nazarov took the passport and credit cards, looking them over quickly "Who's the target? Someone I have to retrieve?" He wondered.

Checking the fake passport, most of it seemed in order, and it was another alias to add to his list. The credit and debit cards looked like the real thing though, but Nazarov could have easily got these items himself from all the NSA and CIA men he'd removed in the past. Shaking his head, Salko handed Tarasovich the photographs.

"I'm afraid that discretion dictates that we have a less traditional agreement. We can only provide you with the target's age and date of birth, along with last known position. Between that and Obanno, a man of your skill should make short work of this" Salko insisted, the frown lines on his lips twisting into a sneering smirk. He enjoyed this, the mystery of the spy-game. The game that was rigged, fighting for the country where all lines were illusory, and all men were expendable.

The Doctor slid Tarasovich a piece of folded paper, ripped from a typewriter, it had stamped numbers and letters across it. The information that the General mentioned, most likely. Nazarov slid the paper into his jacket and rose from his chair, turning, the soldiers scowled and grunted in his direction.

But they still moved away from him, his reputation must have meant something to them after all these years of working freelance for the Kremlin. Part of the scrapbook given to him was a boarding pass for a flight to New York. The flight was in a few days and there was instructions on where and when to meet Agent Snow, who sounded like the secret benefactor for this mission into the heart of terrorist-controlled Africa.

Before Nazarov got out the door, Salko coughed and raised his head, turning his nose up at the mercenary. So, just as Nazarov opened the door, the General wet his lips and spoke.

Tarasovich acknowledged him with a half-turn of his head. "When I was imprisoned in Siberia, I spent my first winter wearing a dead man's coat, with a hole in one pocket" General Salko divulged.

He raised his hand, the one with the four stumps in the place of his fingers. "I chewed these fingers off before the frostbite could turn to gangrene" Salko lowered his stumpy hand and pointed with a finger on his other hand - he pointed to the hearing-aide and tapped it gently "My eardrums shattered when I took a grenade in Wonsan, during the Korean War - it allowed me to avoid working in the sulphur mines" Salko then dipped his finger below his eye, showing the pale iris and glass-clear pupil "This was shot out by a sniper in Larissa, during a mission I can no longer talk about" He finished, leaning against the table-sized desk.

The Venator curled his lip and nearly guffawed. Just when the General's tone went decidedly more sinister "Endurance; that is how I survived when so many others did not. A man this rare can always be of use...so show me, show me you're rare, Mr Tarasovich. Show me you'll do anything to survive. Bring me my asset and prove to me that you're as good as Chekhov says you are" Salko gripped the edge of his desk, as his tallest guardsman cocked his head to the side, placing his weapon in his coat.

Doctor Netzke swallowed as Nazarov went to the door, opening it, he stepped through as he could feel the eyes burning into his back; Arnulf Salko and his guardsmen. The Venator left the room with the package of information jammed into his hand, with a clear thought in his head - he was handed a mission, but what he was really given was a chance to finally leave the confines of Russian control and escape the Kremlin's watching eyes.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 19th 2014

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

FAC APLH 34 - 22:10:52

Placed in a thin metal chair, the straw-haired woman was searched and stripped of all belongings she had on her person. She had been placed in one of the hospitable interrogation room (despite the oxymoron) and was led in front of a monitor screen - similar to those found in every control room and hallway - and currently showing an inactive Samaritan UI. The pulsing red triangle on a black background. The woman was tied to the chair by three men, registered by Samaritan as Assets.

Behind the blacked out, two-way mirror, Martine Rousseau and two other men; Tyler and Thorndyke, watched Shelly be confronted by the television screen. Martine had changed into a black sleeveless shirt with a high collar, she wore a necklace and rings with tight fitting jeans and ankle-length heeled boots.

Tyler was a resident of DC and a former Secret Service member before defecting to Samaritan, so he knew exactly what Shelly was going through.

Sneering at the woman through the mirror, the stiff-lipped Thorndyke blinked, and regarded Martine with a jealous glance "How many do we have...like her?" He puzzled, his hand going to his hips.

In the reused operating room, the screen flickered into life. Shelly had no choice but to be focused on what had begun to be shown on the monitor screen. Vivid images of war torn lands, oil being dumped to the sea and soiled at refineries across the world, big business and stockpiles of landfills full of human waste.

She saw picturesque images of seas and massive landscapes swallowed by yellow and orange sunsets, church towers that stood tall over every other building, power-stations, rippling water, serenity filling each lap of a wave on the shore. Ash falling from the sky, then many faces. The face of herself - Shelly Spencer - then Martine's smirking portrait. POTUS, his Press Secretary, and children of all kinds.

"At the moment, we've got twenty-six on the East Coast, and nine across the West. That's just the USA - Greer's been getting reports of even more joining our cause overseas. All over the worldwide governments" Martine reported. In response, Tyler huffed in appreciation and folded his arms, crossing them while he glanced at Martine, the relatively short woman was gleaming with power.

The screen now showed flashing white lights, in a sequence, a code of some kind. Shelly had no other choice but to watch, like it had hypnotised her.

Thorndyke checked his wristwatch impatiently as if it was making him uncomfortable to watch the woman be indoctrinated. "How long does this usually take? I hope she's the last of them. We should be hunting the followers of The Machine, not collecting these human pets" He grumbled, a tang of venom in his voice - knowing that Team Machine could be days away from returning.

But if they did, they'd already be vastly outnumbered, to an almost impossible degree. Their machine was more plucky than Greer had assumed, as it was able to avoid every new search-pattern that Samaritan created.

Upper-class in nature, Thorndyke had a long, mule-like face with a thin neck, a rounded nose and beady brown eyes. His ears curled upwards behind a flat line of brown and greying hair. He wore a dark blue business-suit, a three-piece, with a grey-spotted tie. Dusting his blazer which clung to his bony and wiry body, he sniffed the air with all the pompous nature of a leading bureaucrat.

Thin as a beanpole, Thorndyke had been selected by Samaritan for his knowledge of strategy and SAS-level tactics. Working with Jeremy Lambert, who often regarded him as more of a politician than soldier, Thorndyke had been skeptical of an AI's ability to lead an army.

Watching Shelly's body tense, the side of Martine's lips curled up into a smile. "You were Secret Service once, Tyler - what do you think of her?" She cocked her head to Shelly, as Tyler stepped up to the mirror. Tyler was a tough, stubbled man, with a sidearm at his hip. He approached Martine's side.

He took a second for consideration before forming his opinion "If we put her in the right place, she'll serve us well. It's definitely work faster than Cayden Hayward, that's for sure" Tyler chuckled. The room were they stood was clouded in shadow from the lights of the operating room, as Shelly barely moved in her chair, like she had been taken by death itself.

Samaritan's screen had been flickering the code for a few second before fading into white pixels. The woman was lifeless, restrained in the chair in the middle of the room. Suddenly turning on her heel, Martine opened the door with one hand, moving from the observation room to the dimly-lit hallway of the Steiner.

Meeting the two guards at the doors, other Assets, she nodded to them. "It's done, we'll have to implant her and put her back where we found her - before anyone notices" Martine told them. The two guards, a half-balding man and his stocky companion, regarded Martine with some respect.

"Sykes has been checking the police feeds from DC, there's been no reports of her missing, Ma'am. Nothing from Interpol or the NYPD either" The half-balding Asset responded neutrally. Seen as ' **ASSET/ / 2013** ' by Samaritan, he led them into the operating room, holding a small earpiece in his hand which he passed to Martine dutifully. Shelly looked dazed, the same face that Cayden Hayward had after his first time being exposed to Samaritan.

Since then, Hayward had been subjected to many experiments, while his own son was used as a puppet by the all-seeing ASI.

Strapped to the chair by her ankles and wrists, Martine's slender hands touched Shelly's chin, raising her head up and inspecting her soft cheeks. A pair of fingers went to her throat, where she thankfully found a pulse.

The two Assets guarded the door as Martine nodded to the blacked out mirror - behind it, Thorndyke and Tyler watched with slow breaths. Holding a small earpiece in her fist, Martine turned Shelly's head sideways kindly, tilting it just long enough to implant the microchip-like earpiece into her ear, she held her head steady while doing it, so it wouldn't cause that much pain to the woman.

She needed her whole, she needed Shelly to be at least responsive when they turned the earpiece on. With the men by the door reaching for their Smith & Wesson M&P Shields, holding the pistols just as Martine gave the signal to the men behind the two-way mirror.

Tyler would be working the controls with Thorndyke watching, the former Secret Service man would be operating the panels and computers, linking the countless feeds of Samaritan's information into Shelly's ear.

Martine wiped her nose as she stepped back "Are we live?" She asked the two-way mirror, as the intercom system crackled into life and the voice of Tyler came through eventually "We're good. She should be responding, do you want me to call Doctor Wendell?" He said with a pinch of concern and Martine raised a hand, telling him that he might want to hold off. Seconds later, she saw the head of Shelly raise from it's unconscious state, as the buzz and wiring finally kicked in.

The straw-haired woman didn't convulse or shake like Cayden Hayward, she was remarkably calm. Her eyes rolling forward in her head from her unconsciousness, her hair falling around her face, Martine kept at a distance as the two Assets from the doorway called in. They could have had another defective in their hands until Shelly looked at Martine, the frail woman didn't see her with the same fear or innocence she had on her face previously at the White House's East Wing. Wearing tattered clothes, Miss Spencer's mouth hung agape slightly.

Gesturing for her two guards to step away, Martine's lips met in a calm expression "Good evening" She began, trying her best to use her British accent. Doing her impression of Lambert was good enough. Shelly's first reaction wasn't to lunge out and attack Martine - thankfully - she simply opened her eyes and waited. Analysing her surroundings as the voice of Samaritan was piping into her ear.

With the two seasoned Samaritan Assets watching from behind the mirror, Martine was covered in the shadows of the operating theatre.

Through the camera in the corner of the room, Samaritan's interface flickered into life, opening several screens and bypassing the countless camera feeds, it honed in on the operating room. Identifying Martine and the two Assets guarding her, it highlighted Shelly with ring around her head. Circling her head with a reticle that shifted around, in a clockwise motion, the bars going from left to right around Shelley's face. Shortly, two arrows pointed inwards and a box appeared.

[SUBJECT IDENTIFIED]

DESIGNATION: **TRACKED INDIVIDUAL**

 **_ ASSET**

NAME: SPENCER, SHELLY

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

LOCATION: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

Samaritan's UI produced a strange mechanical sound as a bar of red and white text flashed up above Shelly's head. Buffering for a few seconds, it made the sound of confirmation as the bar stuck above the reticle. A number was shown as Martine took a cautious step forward. Shelly glanced up at her with her vacant eyes, as Samaritan instructed her. "What are your commands?" Shelly articulated.

"Oh my dear Miss Spencer - it's going to be a very successful election. Let's get started" Martine replied with a twinge of happiness at her lips.

ACCESSING ALTERNATE FEEDS...

 **ACCESSING SECURE FACILITY...**

LOCATION: JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA

PRECISE LOCATION: 9 MAIN STREET, MEREDALE, JOHANNESBURG 2091

HALL_05 CAM 06 - 04:41:23

Hidden under a maximum security prison, the underground Samaritan base was registered officially as a 'Biomedical Research Facility' by the leading benefactor to Samaritan, Zenith-Media Corporation. The company that had been responsible for shipping the supplies and buying the heavy-duty hardware that was used to run the supercomputers.

As most of the shell companies that Decima owned went down with Rylatech, Zenith-Media was now responsible for picking up the pieces. Now manned by hundreds of Assets, nurses and doctors, the place was being set up as quickly as Stewart could oversee new arrivals.

SUB1_SRVRM_04 - 04:42:09

In one of the unused server rooms, stacks of crates and heavy boxes were being loaded in through a system of electronic lifts in the ground. People who were allowed access to the complex would enter through a door at the North side, and all deliveries would be sent in and checked vigorously which was the procedure at the moment.

Meanwhile, Stewart stood over a impressively large wooden box. Wielding a penknife, he sliced the bonds that held the crates together. Now seeing them come apart, he relished in the devices that he was gifted.

Holding a clipboard next to him, Stewart was overseen by the emerald-eyed Arquette and his subordinate, Wickham (Or **ASSET/ /423** ) who both had copies of the shipping manifestos. Wickham was a middle-aged, brown-haired man, dressed in a security uniform, he was one of the managers of this facility. But he was due for a promotion into the higher ranks of Samaritan's operatives.

Unclipping another box, Stewart smiled at the chrome contents, another brand new machine from the designers at Turndale Technologies, recently bought out by the people at Zenith-Media.

Arquette tapped his pen to his clipboard, ticking off the item once he checked the number and manufacturer on the side of the box. He was wearing a dark plain suit with a dull green tie, striped with white, while Stuart trotted around in loafers and a baggy sweater, his thick glasses perched on his nose. He guffawed in joy as he unhooked another box, watching the wooden panels fall, he saw a fresh six-foot tall block of hardware. A server marked 'INGRAM Sabre Blade 2440' the upgraded model, far superior to the old versions.

Opening a second box, he found a series of microchips and another cube of metal and LEDs strewn together with hardware, a 'PowerEdge SC1500' server, which distracted Stewart long enough for a figure to enter the room. Holding up a hand to Arquette, the ever-respectable Jeremy Lambert cast a look of pride over the room.

Seeing the growing computers and cameras installed in the hallways, the final pieces were finally being put together, the rooms didn't seem so empty anymore. "How's it coming?" Lambert introduced himself, stepping from the doorway, he wore a checkered blue suit jacket and tie, and had his hair combed and slicked back as his face was lightly tanned.

Stewart quickly span on his heel, smiling up at Lambert with an open mouth "Ah, very - very well! We've had a flurry of deliveries" He gestured around to the unopened boxes and tools lying about the room. Lambert observed them as he touched his hand on the doorframe, before walking down the ramp and going to Arquette's side.

"It feels like Christmas morning! And it's so exciting, everything is really coming together now" Stewart complimented, adjusting his glasses. Nodding, Lambert surveyed the boxes and the large industrial-sized servers. They'd require so much power to run these virtual reality simulations that Greer was asking for. He wanted to map out a series of outcomes, so that Samaritan's Machine-learning can kick in and it can start to upgrade itself further.

Unlike Finch's own AI, Samaritan had no drawbacks and no weaknesses. At it's current growing pace, it would be expanding faster than Lambert could think of.

Going to one of the servers, Stewart found one of the panels and hooked it up to the grid of other monitors on the wall next to him. Watching the lights and LEDs flicker and click into life, he pressed on a few buttons at the control panel as a mechanical whirring started. The units and nodes quickly began to gain power. "I would like to point out now that if you have any, very understandable, questions about the price tag - that sound - equals quality" Stewart assured them.

Raising his eyebrows, Lambert noticed the blinking dot on the ball-like camera above them. "I'm sure that Samaritan and Zenith-Media could cover any costs that you have" Lambert replied.

Opening a box of computer chips and flash-drives, Stewart picked one out of the styrofoam case and raised it into the air, holding the thumb-drive in his hand, he smiled slightly, eager to show off his new toys "See? At Acronis or IBM, this high-powered processing drive would be right at home. That goes for all of it, by the way" He remarked while observing the room.

Wickham took the box once Stewart placed the drive back, taking the box to the table at the side of the room, he unpacked the contents carefully. Jeremy nodded, assuring the technician that he could have anything he wanted to complete his work on this facility.

"Good, we want you to have what you need, after all" Lambert shifted his body, sticking his hands into his pockets, his eyes creasing as he smiled. The entire structure of the building and the underground catacombs had been constructed by Samaritan - using it's hierarchy of puppet companies. So, it was easy to contract a legion of builders and miners to construct the hallways and the rooms.

But arranging the technical and medical supplies was Stewart's job as he was placed in charge as the chief scientific officer.

Dutifully, the spectacled chief scientific officer chuckled in enjoyment of his situation "Well in that case, Samaritan and Greer have spent enough time on this for it to be wasted. I doff my proverbial hat to you, Sir" Stewart japed. Jokingly, he mimed tipping his hat to those that saw him.

However, Jeremy cut straight back to business "When do you think you'll be up and running?" He asked. Greer had been wanting to test the Virtual Reality capabilities for the longest time since Samaritan came online, in an effort to make up ground against the Machine. "Within a month, I'd say" Stewart guessed, as Lambert's face turned to an unhappy scowl.

"Two weeks - days. Uh, yeah. Two days" Stewart backtracked. He was admired for his intellect, but his social skills left much to be desired. Smirking modestly, Lambert admired the bulky computers and monitors on the wall "Good, very good" He praised.

Though inactive, the monitors displayed the Samaritan logo, pulsing in a light crimson. Suddenly perking up, Stewart unfolded his hands and jogged over to one of the smaller computer-building units. He picked up a thin piece of paper, that had a degree of numbers and statistics across it.

Presenting it to Lambert, Stewart straightened up "By the way - that code sample you asked me to run?...I ran it. It's quite good" He noted, showing the piece of paper to Jeremy, who hardly blinked at it. Gesturing to one of his men, Lambert took the paper from the hands of the medical technician. The sample had a lot of technical specs and numbers on it.

It was definitely a lot of analysis and not much evaluation, but the code seemed familiar to Stewart's eyes. Thanking him, Jeremy pulled down his cuffs just as he stepped away "Arquette, you can take this away and discard it" He ordered.

The code had been given to Stewart to run through several generators and check the stability of a virtual reality experience. A simulation that would be one-hundred percent realistic. "Is that the code of the Machine? Because it really is quite amazing - the code, of course. I'm speaking purely in technical terms" Stewart interjected. He didn't want to destroy the evidence just yet, as apart from Samaritan, the Machine was just as much a wonder of science and technology.

Arquette's bright green eyes went wide and Wickham stopped his business to turn around. "I'm just saying, if that's our competition...then we have our work cut out for us" Stewart stated plainly.

Despite all that had been done in the months since Samaritan had been online, it was constantly wanting to expand. That meant following it's predecessor, Finch's Machine. "We don't have any competition, Stewart. Not as far as I'm concerned" Lambert made known, slightly raising his voice.

Checking the paper again, the ratings were nearly off the charts. The Machine could run thousands of simultaneous simulations in seconds. So far, Samaritan hadn't tried one. But if they could crack the Machine's code, it could get them one step ahead of the game. Still pleading with him for some unknown reason, Stewart followed him as Lambert attempted to leave "Jeremy, Uh - with all this equipment and hardware, I can guarantee that with Samaritan's help, we can get a simulation running up to nighty-five percent efficiency" Stewart dwelled on the numbers of the project for a minute, mumbling it under his breath.

"I'm proud of that figure, Sir, it's a hard earned figure. However after looking at the core coding for the Machine from the ISA's Research project, the Machine may be a little...scrappier, but it's running at ninety-nine percent capacity...maybe a touch beyond that" Stewart divulged carefully, drawing the attention of the men around him.

Curiously, Greer's right-hand man reacted with intrigue. "What do you mean?" Lambert asked the spectacled scientist. He knew that it was only a small percentage difference, but in the world of coding, it was a tremendous amount; a huge gulf.

Stewart was about to remiss, before he found the confidence to continue "If we could...adapt the Machine's code to fit Samaritan's algorithms, then we're looking at a massive boost. I know that Decima improved the original core codes and user interface, but what if we take it a step further, allow Samaritan to cover everything - from importing and exporting feeds to even conducting communication and assimilation with potential AI competitors" Stewart suggested. Was he thinking about a potential merger between Samaritan and the Machine?

"For our purposes, nighty-five percent is perfectly adequate. Please, don't let this trouble you" Lambert cautioned, brushing off Stewart's idea. Shaking his head, the technician's brow furrowed "We should consider...that the Machine is Samaritan's peer. Surely we aren't that naive to think that if they engage in battle, amidst the chaos, another ASI could soon arise" He responded with a sour tone.

Huffing, Lambert folded his hands behind his back "Not for certain..." He doubted, just as Arquette appeared at Lambert's shoulder, flanking him. Unlike Jeremy, the idea had been floating in his head. "Proliferation is inevitable, so is progress. We should tell this to Greer, maybe he'd be interested in the prospect at least" Arquette said in a throaty grovel, his emerald eyes going to the ball-like camera in the corner of the room. In the camera's lens, a red light blinked on and off.


	33. Chapter 33: Shadow Army

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: APRIL 4th 2013

LOCATION: NEW YORK STATE, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

FAC APLH 40 - 08:15:03

Turning the corner in the darkened hallway, the sheets of metal around them were white and red with rust. Activating a torch in the blackness and shadow, a kind-faced man held the torch as he looked at a power box in the wall. Around the two men was nothing but piping and cracked wall-tiles, clearly a building that hadn't been kept up to standard. It was ageing and falling apart, as the nearest wall bore deep cracks and scuffed paint.

Seeing the long corridor from the distance, the building was wide but not long, as it's three floors held a web of rooms and containment areas.

It was a perfect shell of the old world for the new one to hide in. As polished shoes walked and echoed down the ageing hallway, the man holding the torch was a Doctor for the asylum. He had a kind, wide-eyed face with receding hair and a brotherly, friendly tone.

Waving the torch around to show the doorways and the halls, the Doctor had a neat lab-coat buttoned around his waist and a dress-shirt underneath. Wearing a dark tie, the Doctor showed his guest around the corridors of the mental facility.

The institution had been forgotten by the state and was now owned by a private firm that built such establishments as prisons and asylums. A firm that could easily be taken over by Decima. The Technology company had started in China - Shanghai to be exact. It was an independent, international organisation and was not affiliated with the Chinese government (despite various Chinese politicians and Liaisons on their side) but it had been a network long in the making. This was just one of the steps to ensure that network grew. Like a spider at the centre of it's web, the Decima Executive Board had control of so many strings and tools.

One of their tools was the Operations division, ran by the ruthlessly enigmatic Greer. Inspecting the asylum, he wore a long grey overcoat and hat, underneath was a deep blue pinstripe suit. In November of last year, he had lost the services of the traitorous Agent Kara Stanton to a bombing attack in New York City. Just as he had given her the information to topple the machine; but it was a loss that he could cope with.

The analysts at Decima had been training Virgil to hack into the Machine's code - it was him that had been working on the virus to infected the Machine. After the battle at the Office of Special Counsel, many people from Decima had been working on creating a second Machine, or trying to find one.

Virgil's brainchild, the virus was found from the Ordos Laptop, purchased by Greer from the Black Market and taken from Chinese spies. The code of the virus was damaged, but adapted by a unknown source, then tinkered with by Greer's men.

After Lambert lost Daniel Casey, Greer had been forced to acquire new security and sanction the training of more operatives. Keeping the old guard, there was one particular operative he was interested in. The Doctor went to one of the wall panels again, dusting it off, he uncovered a set of switches. Flicking them up, the switches revealed the lights to the hallway, blinking on, Greer and the Doctor watched as the asylum came back to life. "Of course, the electrical system needs work" Doctor Preston observed.

Greer was sympathetic to his plight, nodding, he took a refined step - following the Doctor down the corridor. "We haven't had a new patient in months, our admitting physicians are out of practice, but they'll act as a intuitive human security system when it comes to identifying intruders" Preston assured him.

Raising his eyebrows slightly, Greer had a much better security system in mind. But he was willing to employ the use of any human asset when it came to achieving the goals of the Executive Board.

He had been tasked with purchasing this asylum for use by the Executive Board, and it wasn't his place to question a direct order. With Stanton's help, they had deposited the virus into the Machine and it was days from going live. Following the Doctor, Greer touched the top of his striped silver tie while walking, his wrinkled face turning into a mask of a scowl.

"How much are they asking again?" Greer asked with a sneer. Doctor Preston shrugged, touching one of the doors with delicate fingers. "About seven-hundred-thousand, which doesn't account for any other expenses" Preston told him.

Greer checked some of the holding rooms, cells and empty halls. Dull yellow walls and dim lighting, with hardly any personnel. They'd have to restock the whole place with supplies and install enough cameras to swamp the perimeter and the interior. Decima had been using mercenary soldiers around the streets of New York for reconnaissance purposes, only reserving their own teams for important conflicts - so Decima would have to hire more to install all this new technology into the old building.

Luckily, the Virus inside the Machine had been revealing things about the code and the people connected to it step by step. The Machine had gone through so many variations, fighting for its life and was hobbled by the creator. Restricted, only able to produce the Social Security Number to ensure the safety of the victim or perpetrator.

Greer's distraction plan (also known as Vigilance) was proceeding as planned, using puppets like Peter 'Collier' Brandt and his followers to help sow doubt of a AI-ran world into the common people. Creating grounds for outrage when the Machine is released into public knowledge. Something to use against the masses, so the prospect of a second system wouldn't be outrageous.

"I'm certain that Greenglade can meet any price put forward to us, but you're certain this facility can take hardware instalments?" Greer questioned. The Doctor considered his thoughts, stroking his chin. The middle-aged and unassuming man responded kindly "If you can fix it up, sure - but you might wanna keep that stuff in the upper levels" Doctor Preston advised. Putting his hands inside his pockets, Greer was taken to the empty surveillance rooms. Computers left to rust and covered in dust and filth.

Most of the machinery was dreck, scum-filled and left over from when the place was being operated by better minds. If the new owners of the asylum could take a settlement fee, then Greenglade would become the newest landlords of the institution.

Owning it would bring a lot more freedom, Decima could keep a stable, under the radar HQ and allow a place to operate the Executive Board's new program. The project was kept under secrecy, and Decima had to partner-up with many new organisations to help get the resources.

Doctor Preston described the ailing facility, the cracked walls and the broken staircases. Some of the IV monitors had stopped working a long time ago, and the morgue was now off-limits due to the smell. "Most of our staff are veterans, you'll need to pay them well if you want to conduct any...after hours activities" Preston assumed, as the man had come mostly alone to inspect the building. Leaving his squadron of guards outside, Preston accompanied Greer back to the end of the central hallway.

After seeing the second and third levels, most of the cells and sleeping areas had been turned into posts for guards to stay, while the solitary confinement wing had remained untouched, the security was sparse. Only about forty or fifty people remained as staff members, as the Superintendent of the asylum had resigned months earlier, so Preston was now the highest ranking man in the building.

FRONT DRIVE 06 - 09:31:50

Returning to the entrance, Greer turned side-face and offered his hand as two orderlies closed the gates at the doorway. Outside the asylum, a sign had been torn down near the entranceway 'Available Property: For Sale' it had said. Next to the sign, a tall chain-link fence had been put up to replace a much older one.

Greer stepped down from the doors and was followed by Doctor Preston. "Assuming everything pans out, you'll be hearing from us very soon" Greer outstretched his hand. Looking down to it, the Doctor quickly placed his hand forward, shaking with Greer. "Thank you, Mr Greer - sounds great, I'll be in touch" He finished.

Walking down to his car, Greer saw the three men stood outside. All in ash-grey suits and standing with their hands folded in front of them, Agent Drake touched his earpiece as he opened the door for the Operations Director to step inside.

Making his way down the ramp and the driveway, Greer removed his hat and coat, passing it to a slightly taller and thin-haired man, nearly as old as Greer himself. The next was a man-mountain of enigmatic strength, as Zachary nodded his head, stepping into the driver's seat.

Getting into the car, a darkened four-seater xc90 Volvo, Zachary leant out the window to watch the smug Drake hop into an SUV filled with other Decima enforcers and some of Greer's men from his mercenary companies and street-gangs. "So? Is everything to your satisfaction?" A female voice asked from across the seats.

As the thin-haired man (Agent Steele, a longtime friend of Greer from the MI6) closed the car's door, Greer looked over at his travelling companion.

With a high-brow, a stiff and low fringe of dark brown nearly black hair - Mia Xavier fluttered her eyelashes. The seductress of a business manager leant back in her seat, placing her hands in her lap, her nails and lips were coated in a bright crimson. The noticeably paler woman wore a fluttery black and gold shirt, lined in soft silk with a high-collar. Greer produced a thin-lipped grin, considering his thoughts. Taking a breath, he looked back at Mia "It could work..." Greer mused.

Decima could never have bought the building themselves, they'd require the extra boost of funds, so the philanthropic efforts of the Zenith-Media Corporation would be required. Mia being their CFO and former Logistics Manager, she'd have the connections to purchase the property and hold it long enough for Decima to begin operating out of the facility. Many had requested using one of Decima's shell corporations, but the LHR-Group was a much better outfit to enlist, as the Executive Board had contacts either side. A collaboration was necessary in the eyes of Greer.

"Alright then...shall we get underway?" Xavier suggested, as Greer pulled down his cuff-links, slightly tinkering with them before lounging back in the seat. At the back of the car, he checked his watch. Checking the time, the Virus wasn't due to become live yet. Watching Doctor Preston from the window, Zachary turned his head around to glance at his boss "We're due to meet Mr Baxter in an hour, Sir" Zachary said with a monotone grumble.

Greer raised his eyebrows for a second, nodding as his bodyguard turned back around to the steering wheel. "Then we're on schedule, we've gained the confidence of Rylatech and soon we'll be ready for Zenith-Media's much needed expansion. Drive" Greer commanded. Zachary started the engine as the elderly Englishman turned to his female companion, smiling, Mia Xavier modestly fixed her hair - smirking smartly back at her business partner.

The SUV filled with Decima Agents departed first, to be followed by the Volvo. After enough time the asylum was a distant sight and would soon become the base of the new world order.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 20th 2014

LOCATION: Sutton Place, Midtown, NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: THE CORONET HOTEL

WEBCAM 01 - 01:31:05

 **ASSET/ / 029**

 **ASSET / / 722**

Sat behind a laptop, a pair of pale and bony hands tapped at the keys, eyes glazed by the ultra-white screen. On a comfy and opulent chair was a black-uniformed servant of Samaritan; Weiss, a chief point-man and one of the Steiner's best operatives.

He had been camped out in this hotel room for hours, along with the statuesque Martine Rousseau and an analyst called Warren. The laptop he worked on was an older model, but improved by Samaritan, it tracked the shipping vehicles and Assets working at the minute.

Rousseau and Weiss were working in the bedroom, as the fiercely blonde Martine watched her coworker tap away at the keys of his laptop. Meanwhile, the analyst Warren was in the lounge area of the penthouse hotel room, separated by a small door, he was on the phone to Murrow and Sykes back at headquarters.

Weiss had just returned from DC, transporting the newly indoctrinated Shelly Spencer back to her home for the Police to find. Completely unharmed, she'd pass any mental evaluation, but still kept the seeds of Samaritan's control.

While this all happened, the ASI still fed Social Security Numbers to the Pentagon through an alliance with the US's intelligence community. Senator Garrison and Control had secured the unity with Greer, in exchange for the government's feeds and the placement of one 'necessary asset' inside the Pentagon. That being a man only referred to as 'Mr. Travers' Greer's left-hand, he was the eyes and ears inside Control's world of spies and espionage. Despite having such a marvellous 'machine' at their disposal, Garrison and his friends still couldn't drive it themselves.

Samaritan controlled itself, when it was out of action it was at the beck and call of it's loyal Assets. Travers was another chess-piece placed by Greer at a strategic point on the board.

With one arm across the back of the chair, the dark-haired Weiss looked back at Martine, who had folded her lean and lithe arms. Dressed in a low-cut black top and blazer, she wore heeled boots and thick jeans that hung to her legs.

Her hair in a tight bun at the top of her head, her thin lips twisted upwards just slightly as she saw the laptop's screen, security camera views from the nation's capital.

In the White House, Shelly was meeting with the Congresswoman that replaced Roger McCourt. Martine admired her work ethic, getting to business straight away. Making it her mission to begin convert the courts and the Senate to Samaritan's manifesto.

The straw-blonde in the White House had been tasked to retrieve information and bring others to her side as more than proxies. So far, she had generally successful.

Straight-faced and serious, Weiss was a Northern American from a Jewish background, he was a former FBI Case Officer and was recruited to Samaritan after he was unlawfully discharged by a jealous Deputy Director (who had married Weiss's ex-wife) Martine often found relationships the most destructive thing to an Agent. She should have known, as today - she barely thought about Tommy, or Decima, or anything from her past. It was her past for a reason.

Placing her hand on the corner of the table, Martine took a slow breath "We can capture as many Shelly Spencer's as we like, Senator Garrison is still a loose end" She cautioned, eyeing the footage on the laptop.

At the risk of sounding like Thorndyke - Martine was right. Garrison had been doing nothing but negotiating with the LHR-Group and attending meetings of the Senate, rather than serving Samaritan. "An unfortunate inconvenience, his negligence may just be the death of him" Weiss replied in a stern voice.

"Then why haven't I been activated? If he forces our hand, then we should act immediately" Martine reasoned. Weiss didn't even look at her as she pouted, her head tilting slightly. "Perhaps Samaritan wants to deal with that matter personally" He guessed, flicking through lines of code to highlight another security camera feed.

Both of them wore chest holsters as Martine adjusted her own pistol, while Weiss was checking the more local feeds. The improved Samaritan compiled whole profiles of civilians in seconds. Someone at the Steiner had taken a lot of time to improve the UI - and Greer spoke enough about the concept of 'machine learning' so eventually the AI could improve itself.

"Then let me take care of Team Machine" Martine said coldly. Despite the efforts of Greer's best men, the group that followed the Machine still couldn't be found.

The Samaritan analysts had isolated three out of the seven, the followers of the woman known as 'Root' these three tech-monkeys must have been the most hidden, as they had families and lives, while the real Team Machine were all loners. The former CIA grunt Reese had no one else, only his gun and his penchant for justice. Another member of the ISA, Sameen Shaw, was officially dead. 'Root' had lost all humanity years ago. But it was their leader - he was Greer's nemesis, the elusive Mr Finch.

Weiss wasn't the one to authorise Martine's mission and he knew it. "You'll have your chances with them, I assure you" He told her. If they were still hiding in New York City then Samaritan couldn't find them with all it's equipment and hardware.

The Machine had gone underground too, evading all attempts to be located. The assets had been deployed in teams across the city, there was word of thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands across the world. Martine remembered the Taxi driver in Japan and finding out about Cinder.

She wondered how many other people she once knew had been turned into one of Samaritan's soldiers. "We should be leaving nothing to chance. It's time for them to go; the era of the Machine is over" She declared. Weiss wiped a finger across his nose, sniffing as he observed the street corner near the Hotel and then checked the cameras in the hotel lobby.

Seeing a man in grey overalls pushing a cart full of boxes, Weiss clicked on his laptop - viewing the camera in the elevator. The man the grey overalls loaded his cart into the elevator and hit the button for the floor that the Assets were on.

Martine took interest, placing her hand on the top of Weiss's chair. She watched the man in grey overalls, he had a plain face...but one she remembered. As the elevator doors opened, the man pushed his cart of cardboard boxes towards their room. "No...it can't be" She breathed, watching the man approach the door to their room.

Sat on one of the couches across the large sitting room, Warren was enjoying some downtime outside of all his work as a Samaritan asset. His colleagues were more interested in his equipment rather than him. A former NSA surveillance expert, he was recruited with his entire team from Fort Meade. He had even heard a rumour that now all of the Fort had become loyal to Samaritan. Hearing a knock at the door, Warren stood, drawing the suppressed SIG-Sauer P250 from his back-pocket, he approached the door with slow steps.

Dressed in a fitting black sweater and jeans, his thin hand reached for the doorknob. Opening it slightly, he saw a bulky man wearing grey overalls. He had part of a beard on his face and small, beady brown eyes. Wearing a cap and having the UPS logo on his packages, he smiled with a friendly inflection. "Package for a Garrett Smith?" He asked - as Warren held the handgun just out of view behind the door. The young analyst shook his head. Warren was fresh-faced, with a lean body and long arms.

The deliveryman checked a clipboard, looking with disappointment. Warren leant on the doorframe, his hazel-brown hair obscuring one of his eyes. The deliveryman looked down to his packages just as Weiss burst in through the bedroom door, swinging the doors open with both hands. "Warren, don't open that door!" He cautioned as Martine followed, her earpiece opening up a channel to Samaritan just in time.

"THREAT IMMINENT. AHEAD. ENEMY COMBATANT AT 4.1 METERS" Samaritan told her.

A second later, the deliveryman put down the clipboard and drew a sawn-off Remington 870 shotgun - with a short barrel - he fired one shot towards Warren. Blasting the door off it's hinges, the bullets struck Warren - piercing the wooden door and the man's skin. The analyst fell to the floor with a blast of smoky blood.

Aiming towards Weiss, Martine grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back into the bedroom to save him from the deliveryman's second shot. Diving to the floor, Weiss cursed to himself as he withdrew his black-chrome Star Model B handgun.

Crawling to his knees, he took cover beside the wall next to Martine, as the delivery man fired another two rounds from his shotgun. Hitting the opposite wall, the shotgun pellets grazed the bed and the windows. The deliveryman had been shooting for a solid thirty seconds, peppering the back of the bedroom with holes of various sizes. A few more blasts hit the wall in front of them as the deliveryman yelled out in anguish - firing another round into the bedroom with speed - taking his time to gloat, he spoke in a thick German accent "Don't you have any idea who you're up against? You and your friends are dead!"

Martine hid next to the doorframe, just as a cloud of dust and lead exploded next to her, making her recoil back. Taking out her Walther P99, she waited for eventual heavy clicking sound. "He's ran out now, right?" Weiss wondered, raising his weapon as he peeked around the corner, passing Martine. He leant out and fired a couple of rounds from his pistol. From the camera in the flatscreen television, Samaritan accessed it and viewed the flight of the bullets, constantly calculating their movement.

RM 101 TVCAM - 01:40:07

CALCULATING TRAJECTORY_

DISTANCE TO TARGET: **4.093 METERS**

TIME TO INTERCEPT: **00:00:01.398**

Registering the man as a 'Enemy Combatant' Samaritan watched as the bullets from Weiss's handgun struck the deliveryman, making him fire his shotgun askew. Now out of ammunition for his main weapon, the deliveryman reached for a full-auto Glock 17.

Dropping the shotgun, Martine heard the weapon fall and turned around from her covered position, walking through the smoke - she put three bullets in the man's chest and shoulder. Making the deliveryman fall to the floor, his automatic handgun was spraying out in all directions.

Catching Weiss in the abdomen, he was downed by the shot. Martine dropped to one knee, firing in the chaos, the bullets flashed and rocketed towards the deliveryman. The situation now escalating, Samaritan highlighted the aggressor with a upside-down red triangle, it honed in, tracking his head with a reticle.

RM 101 TVCAM - 01:42:19

 **X / / / TARGET IDENTIFIED**

DESIGNATION: ENEMY COMBATANT

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

OCCUPATION: DELIVERYMAN [UPS]

 **REINFORCEMENTS DEPLOYED**

Martine heard the marching of footsteps coming down the corridor, as the delivery man rose to his hands, sitting up - he still held his firearm. His overalls ripped, he wore a white bulletproof vest under his clothes, showing that he was prepared for this.

Seeing three more black-suited Agents appears from the blasted open doorway, they already held pistols as they raised them and rushed into the room, dashing through the opening and plugging the deliveryman's back with shots.

They each fired at least nine rounds each. So the attacker's head was soon caved in by bullets, exploding into a bloody mess.

The reinforcements sheathed their pistols, all physically fit former CIA and Navy Seals, named by Samaritan as ' **ASSET/ / 736** ' ' **ASSET/ / 2001** ' and ' **ASSET/ / 891** ' they were a team that broke in and swiftly gunned down the aggressor. Martine cocked her pistol, reloading. The leader of the three-man team announced himself as their backup - he was a muscled and bald man called Edwin. With sunken cheeks and a decent amount of stubble and scruff, Edwin told his men to secure the perimeter and inform any civilians of the firefight. Telling the worried hotel guests and local guards that this was an FBI drugs-bust (that story would fly easily)

Kneeling to the dead man in the middle of the room, Martine inspected his body, running her finger over the bullet wounds and removing his overalls to get a better look at his bulletproof vest. Meanwhile, Weiss checked on the analyst Warren, who hadn't survived the fight.

"What is it Rousseau? You know this man?" Edwin asked, approaching her silently, standing behind her like a looming stranger. Refusing to look back at him, Martine nodded. This man was from her past at Decima. "This...man - tried to kill me. He's apart of a terrorist group I thought was extinct" Martine informed Edwin with a somber voice.

"This group...does it have a name?" Weiss asked, standing from the body of the analyst. Nodding back to him, Martine stood too, pushing her knees down to make her body unfold from her position at the side of the deliveryman's corpse. "It's name is the Shadow Army" She huffed. She clearly hadn't seen the last of them since she left Decima to join Samaritan.

Now raising a hand to his earpiece, Weiss tapped it and straightened up. "Yes, Sir, I have her with me. We've just had quite the encounter" He relayed to a superior on the other side of the connection. He agreed with the speaker on the other end of the channel several times, before shrugging his shoulders, putting a hand to his abdomen, where the bullet had pierced him.

"It's Greer - he wants to see you at the Steiner, something about a new experiment" Weiss divulged, just as his hand drifted from his ear. Nearly falling to his knees, Edwin caught him. Coughing through his mumbles, Weiss's lower body began to spout blood and Edwin called for one of his men (who was a trained medic) while Martine extended a hand to help him to the couch. Lowering him to the sofa, Greer's voice snapped her out of any emotions she had.

"Can you hear me, my dear Martine?" Greer said with a stately manner. Martine confirmed quickly and stepped out of the path of Edwin's medic. Brushing her face with her hand, she was still covered in dust and specs of blood from Weiss and the deliveryman. A man from the Shadow Army? She thought that they had been hunted down by the ISA and FBI once the task-forces from the Pentagon destroyed their operating base in Oregon.

There had been rumours of them fleeing to Mexico, Sweden and Russia, but nothing ever came of rumours. Their leader and many of the officers had either been killed or taken captive by the government. Hauled off to a black-site, they'd never be hearing from them again.

So why did this one mercenary randomly attack them? He must have remembered Martine, but how could he have found out where they were staying, including who she was now? Still speaking to Greer - she'd have to find out at the Steiner.

"Your mission is unlike any in Samaritan's history; a new chapter is opening up in human evolution. We are building a perfect world, but we have to start somewhere. For now, we shall start with an ant-farm. A testing ground for Samaritan's experiments, where ultimate harmony shall be achieved" Greer explained, as Martine's heels clicked against the floor of the hotel.

In a second, Greer continued "The world is more than bombs and guns, Martine. Humanity needs structure and Samaritan will provide that, at least. Lest they wind up destroying themselves, the human race needs a firm hand, so we are the instruments of a god's will. Wars have burned in this world for thousands of years with no end in sight; because people rely so ardently on their so-called beliefs. Now, they will only need to believe in one thing"

"Samaritan" Martine replied. She could feel Greer's smile coming through the earpiece.

"Then shall we get underway?" Greer chuckled.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: JUNE 16th 2008

LOCATION: Kirchenfeld, BERN, SWITZERLAND

PRECISE LOCATION: SWISS NATIONAL LIBRARY

PERIM CAM 4 ZONE 2 - 08:59:31

She had driven all night. Getting away from the sight of a multiple-murder and driving away in one of the victim's vehicles, Georgia had barely escaped Viktor and his men. Through all her thinking and planning, she only remembered one place.

The Swiss National Library. On the day she was taken to meet Ernst Bortnikov - he had threatened to find the woman on the bus who Georgia had spoken too. That redheaded woman was now her only chance of surviving.

If she could convince her to come along and run away from the cabal of terrorists that now pursued Georgia wherever she went. No doubt that Ernst would have knowledge of this already, he would be sending his troops to clear the area immediately. The woman on the bus was an innocent, not deserving of Bortnikov's ruthlessness. As callous and aggressive as he was, even the Venator didn't like to involve civilians in his plans. Georgia was going to have to get through a dangerous area in order to rescue her from a threat that she didn't know was coming.

The library opened at nine-AM. The time was about thirty seconds away, Georgia would need to make her entrance soon. Waiting in the SUV she stole from Viktor, she had changed clothes overnight, buying a fresh and non-bloodstained outfit from a 24-hour department store. Hiding the weapons that Viktor had in the back of the vehicle, she had pulled up at the library an hour ago and was silently scoping the perimeter. She noticed a few men walk into work, but no redheaded woman.

Now dressed in laced-up boots and torn jeans, Georgia wore a short-sleeved shirt with a Swiss metal band's logo on the front and a hooded black suede jacket. Her hair still kept it's arrogantly alternative shades. Split down the middle, one side was a fading jet-black and the other side was a cotton-candy pink which had now turned into a faded blonde. She had dumped her clothes in a trash-can outside a parking garage, taking time to destroyed both the car's radio and the second satellite phone she found under the backseat.

She was banking on the athletic woman turning up to work as it reached nine-AM. Georgia would be sitting here all day if she had too. Having purchased some dark-rimmed sunglasses and a baseball cap, she had the disguise prepared. She already betted on Laszlo and his thugs to show up soon, looking for the same nameless woman from the bus. The building was larger than Georgia had thought, with tall glass panels at every level and a series of steps between the entrance and the pavement.

Several street-lamps decorated the sidewalk at the front of the building. She couldn't see the back of the library, but had wired into the CCTV systems that they had, using them to show images through a burner-phone that Georgia had purchased.

At this early on the morning, it should have been the opening time for the library and yet Georgia couldn't get her eyes on the athletic redhead from the bus journey. She had found the door - the main entrance - so what harm could it do to take the most obvious route? They wouldn't be expecting that, she thought.

Walking into the building, Georgia scanned the immediate area. She had left Viktor's SUV in the parking lot, taking the chunky satellite phone with her (and a concealed Baikal IJ-70 pistol) she scanned her surroundings carefully. The library's foyer was casual, with no front desk or secretary. Passing the comfy armchairs and desks, Georgia was looking for the 'American Fiction' section of the library. That's where the woman on the bus said she worked.

The redhead must have been around here somewhere, as Georgia saw bright-faced employees carrying stacks of books and papers to and from the corridors of the library. Looking at a small map of the building on the wall, she located the main section where the actual library was. Walking towards the large shelves full of books, Georgia passed people in casual dress, wearing hats and coats in the cold Swiss morning.

Yet she always flinched, naturally cautious - she had good reason. Checking over her shoulder every few seconds, she nearly had a glimpse of who she was looking for.

Her footsteps got faster as Georgia saw a glimpse of red hair and a familiar figure. The woman was still as shapely, toned and lean, just as Georgia remembered. Seeing the mystery woman arranging books on the shelves. Admiring her from a distance, the hacker removed the sunglasses from her face, tucking them onto her shirt.

Her heart fluttered at seeing the beauty of the stranger again. The mystery woman from the bus was wearing a uniform, including a name-tag that was currently unreadable from a distance. A modest skirt and tights - and ballet-like formal shoes that laced up at the top.

Only a few steps away from her, Georgia checked the room. There were rows of desks and tables laid out like an elementary school examination room. A classroom full of books and wide glass windows. White walls were stained yellow and bookish men huddled around the map and archive sections. Her hopeful eyes followed the mystery woman. Seeing her order books in the shelves, her hair bright and shining from the morning sun. Going to approach her, Georgia's head quickly turned to the entrance again.

Slinking into one of the aisles of the library, Georgia spied at least four hostiles. Immediately noticing their leader as Laszlo.

Dressed in a black button-up and suit jacket with a dark red striped tie and three uniformed accomplices, he began to search the entrance. Wearing the same dove-pin on his lapel, Georgia noticed the gun holster hidden in his blazer. With sharp black hair and ice-like eyes, Laszlo was quite handsome, but in a mockingly impressive fashion.

She knew that they were looking for the redhead from the bus. They had already lost Viktor, but couldn't risk another failure while Chekhov was overseas in New York. Their current controller, Ernst Bortnikov, had ordered them to kill the stranger because of a possible connection (and conversation) with Georgia.

The terrorist's lieutenant and his men checked the foyer before advancing towards the larger part of the library. Slipping out of the aisle, Georgia quickened her steps and made an inconspicuous dash for the redhead. Moving in-between the bookshelves and display cases, Georgia grabbed the woman by the wrist. "Woah! - Hey, didn't I-" The stranger barely got out before she was interrupted by the British hacker "Yeah you did - I think you're in danger. There's not a lot of time to explain" Georgia told her urgently.

Pulling her into the furthest aisle just before one of Laszlo's men appeared, the redhead shook herself and Georgia let go of her arm. "What do you mean in danger? I'm fine, I've barely clocked in" The stranger began, visibly alarmed. She recognised Georgia from the bus, the conversation they shared and the look of wonder in her eyes. The unique-looking girl began by leaning just out of the aisle, then coming back in again. "There's a group of very bad people who're coming after you...and they're after you because of me" Georgia revealed.

The redhead stranger, who's name-tag read 'Kaitlyn' reacted with a pair of raised eyebrows. "You? I mean - I don't even know your name, I thought you worked at a callcentre" She admitted as their eyes locked. Laszlo and his men were now checking the bookshelves and asking other attendants and assistants at the library. Georgia pulled Kaitlyn back, now there was nowhere to run.

"I worked for those people, but not anymore. We spoke on the bus, so now they think we're working together" She told the redhead. Blinking out of confusion, Kaitlyn pressed a hand to her forehead. "I can't believe what you're telling me. Are you an agent of some kind? Like an undercover spy?" Kaitlyn questioned. Georgia shook her head instinctively. Seeing the terrorist operatives getting closer, she prepped the weapon in her jacket.

Georgia removed her cap, dropping it to the floor "I'm not a spy, I'm afraid I'm much more...but like I said; there's not a lot of time to explain" She tried to say. Kaitlyn looked suspiciously at her, but Georgia couldn't blame the skepticism. However now wasn't the time to argue about it. "What do you want with me? If these guys are here for me, then we need to call the police-" Kaitlyn could barely finish before Laszlo rounded the corner, recognising them with his sharp eyes, he reached into his blazer.

Georgia grabbed Kaitlyn by the arm and midsection, running with her to the end of the aisle and diving into the open, just as Laszlo pulled out his suppressed FN Five-SeveN pistol and opened fire.

The library erupted as Kaitlyn yelped in panic, Laszlo's men drawing their guns while Georgia fired back, running for the doors. Kaitlyn raised her arms to cover her head from the bursting intensity of the firefight.

Running alongside Georgia, the attackers fired wildly, hitting the desks and tables and causing sparks to fly as their bullets hit the lamps and artificial lights. Showering the fleeing women in flickering light, Georgia returned fire, emptying her gun as one of Laszlo's men stood in their way.

She plugged him with the last five bullets, as Kaitlyn shrieked. The man's body hit the floor the exact moment that Georgia pushed through the doors. Kaitlyn beside her, they hugged each other as Georgia took her to the SUV.

Laszlo not far behind, he kicked the doors open and fired his gun with one hand towards them. The bullet's hitting nearby cars and the pavement, Kaitlyn huffed in stress "Wow these guys are shit at aiming!" She commented over the firefight.

Dashing for the SUV, Georgia unlocked the car and jumped inside, Kaitlyn followed quickly as Laszlo and his squad pursued. Starting the engine, a hale of silenced bullets pelted the side of the vehicle. Getting closer to them - Kaitlyn ducked down in her seat, gasping.

Driving them out of the parking lot, Laszlo took aim at their tires; reloading his pistol, he fired low and pierced one of their wheels. Nearly losing control, Georgia smirked as she got the car back onto the road. "Hope you know how to change a tire!" She said with a smile as she placed her gun beside her. Kaitlyn couldn't help but chuckle, the adrenaline not leaving her system yet.

Her alethic body shaking, Kaitlyn sat back up in the passenger seat. "You used to work with those guys?" She asked, a similar death-defying smile on her face.

Georgia nodded, checking the mirror as Laszlo and the Swiss National Library was left far behind. Now they'd just have to escape the country and get back to New York. Bortnikov would be hunting them now, and he had her algorithm. Her secure phone and the knowledge of Chekhov's trip to Oregon and the stop-off in NYC.

Watching their SUV drive away, Laszlo seethed in the parking lot of the library. His hand shaking, he steadied it as one of his surviving men came up behind him. "Sir, our employer wants to speak to you" The bodyguard said, holding out a flip-phone. Laszlo gave a sad smile and nodded, thanking the man.

Holding the phone to his ear, the slick voice of Ernst Bortnikov came through "Is she dead?" Ernst snapped impatiently. "We've had several complications, Sir, the target escaped with the help of Georgia Newport...who fled her execution and killed my men" Laszlo informed him.

"She escaped because you allowed her to escape. You thought with your firearm instead of your brain, Laszlo. I think you'll find with brute force - while it's easy it's also exceedingly messy, with a high detection rate. I prefer precision, design over chaos" Bortnikov preached.

Turning away from the phone to sigh, Laszlo huffed under his breath before turning back to the phone "What would you have me do, Sir?" He asked.

"It's time to change the game, if we cannot find Newport and her friend then maybe our enemies can find them for us. Contact our spies at Decima Technologies, I want Newport's wrap-sheet on every database and computer in their company" Bortnikov ordered simply, his voice devoid of any emotion or compassion for his prey.


	34. Chapter 34: God of the Harvest

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 20th 2014

LOCATION: WASHINGTON DC, USA

SOUTH GARAGE PERIM CAM 06 - 10:27:19

The parking lot was nearly empty. It was the morning of a Wednesday in the Capital. Meaning that it was cold and early enough for the morning shoppers to be away and late enough for the government officials to already be at work.

Parking just far enough from the nearest entrance, a figure walked from the staircase to the upper level of the parking lot. The box-like camera honed in on the man. He moved with somewhat urgency as he reached for his phone; two messages from his NYPD Captain.

Wearing a brown suit jacket with a striped shirt and tie tucked in by a small pin, the sharp-faced man walked with quick steps. He had a stubbled and defined face, shrinking ears and curving lips. He had brown hair that was streaked with an ageing silver. A middle-aged Cop, Richard Kane had a high forehead and a low jawline, with round large cheeks and dull eyes.

He was carrying both his sidearm and Moreno's gift (a hidden revolver, which was a Smith & Wesson 442 with a bronze and brown handle, a black barrel and crooked hammer)

'If you're not gonna accept help, then at least carry two guns' Captain Moreno has warned him at the last moment. Before he left to DC, he remembered the faces of the policemen, people warning him not to be involved in such a investigation. The Zenith-Media Corp was one of the most powerful businesses in NYC, and the western world.

Stretching from Denmark to London, and Russia to the West Coast of America. But Kane was already stockpiling evidence. He had just stopped off at a bank in Washington, to gather some money for his trip home. With the evidence piled up in his car, he held at least three boxes of core pieces of evidence. He had visited the Office of Intergovernmental Affairs in DC - only to find it closed.

His next place to investigate was a facility in Upstate New York. A hospital-like building that had recently received a shipping order of Rylatech computers. Kane already had the satellite images of the 'Steiner Psychiatric Facility' and planned to visit once he got back in the city. It all linked back to Zenith-Media, as they had bought out Rylatech once the CEO had died.

Finding out from a confidential informant that the mental facility was purchased in April, 2013 by a technology firm that fronted all the cost for renovation.

A technology firm buying a mental hospital? Kane considered that worthy of more investigation. Walking towards his car, he noticed that the floor was almost empty of other vehicles. Keeping his weapon close, Kane glanced at a box-like camera in the corner. A camera that watched his movements.

Kane suspected that the Senior Advisor and Director of special projects at the Government office, Phillip Hayes - was heavily involved with the plot. Hayes had an extensive government record, working at Signals Intelligence in England before being moved to the White House as a security advisor to NATO officials. Promoted to Director of Special projects, his name was attached to many nationwide surveillance programs.

Hayes had two main aides - Julian Weston and Caroline Wheeler. Both had no records before 2004, with Wheeler recorded as taking a meeting on Rikers Island.

Weston wasn't the same story, as he was involved in many corporate dealings with Zenith-Media, including their CFO - Mia Xavier. He had found all of this out in one long afternoon in a garage. So if it was that hard for him - how long would it take Moreno and the courts to find out before he could get a warrant?

Approaching his car, Richard opened the door with one last side-eye glance at the security camera. "Damn big brother" Kane cursed. He had taken the time to read through the full book-sized report of 'Northern Lights' scandal. A classified and leaked report of all the government's black-budget programs. Named 'Operational support to counterterrorism activities' the report was evidence of a larger connecting factor; a project that Zenith-Media was building for the government.

The Northern Lights scandal followed perfectly into the hardware and terminal software that had been delivered to the Pentagon. The hardware that had been supplied by Rasmussen's conglomerate.

The same units had gone to the mental hospital upstate and 55 Exchange Place, an (abandoned) office complex just across from the New York Stock Exchange. The building had been out of use for years, as far back as 2008. Yet the suspicious FBI Agent LeRoux had met with Hayes there several times.

Moving across the parking lot to his car, Detective Kane would return to NYC overnight. He had to contact Moreno again, see if he could get an early start on the warrant to search Rasmussen's home; an opulent and palace-like mansion in Saddle River, New Jersey. That wasn't the only place he needed to search, Hayes' workplace and the Exchange Place address were included.

As well as the address of Greenglade Strategists Incorporated (A New York based equipment manufacturer) which was involved in shipping and receiving the parts sent to the mental hospital.

Getting into his car, he closed the door of his 2009 Ford Mustang. Taking a minute of silence in his own vehicle - it was suddenly interrupted by a buzzing phone in his pocket. Drawing the old Nokia, Richard didn't even look at the number as he expected it to be his Captain back at the 8th Precinct. "Okay, Moreno, this is like the third time you've called and-" Kane was cut off almost immediately.

"Do not attempt to contact anyone else outside this vehicle. You are being watched" The augmented voice began, as a confused expression flashed over Kane's face.

Confusion at first, then annoyance. "Yeah, Yeah very funny, Jake" He growled. Undeterred, the voice continued with a mechanical and deep breath. "You believe that you have the advantage over them. You're mistaken. In two minutes, a group of assassins will arrive on this floor to kill you" The voice condemned.

Kane thought rashly, going to open the door to look around before the voice snapped at him. It's robotic tone growing harsher "You're being targeted for what you know, detective. They see you as a threat. Your life means little to them, only because you pose a risk to exposing them. They're ten steps ahead of you, and their game is still unknown" The voice revealed.

Sitting back in his seat and holding the phone to his ear, Kane's mouth hanged open in silent shock. "What can I do?" He asked the voice back.

"You have one minute. Survive, Detective Kane" Then the phone cut off. Placing the phone on the dashboard, Richard looked around. The surroundings seemed clear, as the box-like camera turned slightly to watch his car. Hearing an engine noise below him, it must have been just another car.

His senses heightened, paranoid, he reached into his jacket for his weapon - but it was all too late. Behind him, the glass shattered in his rear-window. Gunshots followed as a dark-skinned, dark-suited man wielded a pistol and opened fire with reckless abandon as the bullets impacted the metal and the backseats.

Murrow loosed a few more shots from his Walther P99, reloading just as he saw his target hiding behind his seat. He heard the car start up as his muzzle-flashes lit up the darkened upper level of the parking lot.

Samaritan had dispatched Murrow and a team of other high-ranking agents to dispose of a interloper. A NYPD lapdog who had flown too close to the sun. Firing towards him, Murrow shot the unarmed man in the arm as he saw the car screech to a start.

He had left the Steiner with a simple kill-order and the man's location, as Samaritan had been tracking his phone since LeRoux got a bad feeling about him. Greer was always merciless when it came to an obstructionist.

The old Mustang blew smoke from its wheels as it roared backwards towards the assassin. Slamming it into reverse, Kane yelled in pain and anger as he took a bullet in the arm just before he managed to collide into the assailant. Smashing into him, the car bashed into the wall, knocking the assassin to the concrete.

With time to draw his own weapon, Kane withdrew his sidearm with a grimace of pain. Then the window to his right exploded with shards flying into the air. More gunshots blasted towards him as the Detective fired back. Another black-suited assassin advanced on him from the side.

Tall as a bus with a stoic expression, the gunman walked casually while opening fire. Now Richard was trapped as he kicked open the door to his left. Returning fire aimlessly - Kane dove out the opposite door with a thud.

Zachary approached the car with his pistol ready, blowing out his window, he put three more bullets into the car's door with his SIG-Sauer P229R. The tall figure emptied his magazine as he saw Murrow on the ground beside the car. Getting closer to the side of the vehicle, Murrow's body was laying flat on the concrete with the Detective nowhere to be seen. Reloading, Zachary leant into the open window and moved the wheel, angling the car towards the other side of the parking lot, then he knelt at the side of Murrow.

The former Paratrooper was wounded, his weapon knocked from his hand, it must have clattered to the other end of the area in the firefight. Checking his injuries, Murrow's chest had been impacted by the car. "Finish...it" Murrow breathed, his chest going up and down with a steady but weak pace.

Standing to his feet; Zachary surveyed the surroundings. Placing a finger to his earpiece, Greer's security chief called for backup "We've got an asset down. Mr Kersey, do you read me?" Zachary asked.

Samaritan had locked down the garage, deploying many squadrons of Assets to secure the target. Kersey and his men had been positioned on the floor below the one that Kane had been spotted on.

Murrow and Zachary had been the first wave, unfortunately the NYPD Detective was able to repel them, even injuring one. But the target was wounded, he had taken two shots to the arm and shoulder already. Kersey responded quickly "Copy that, Zachary, I'm on my way up now" He replied with haste, drawing his gun and rushing to the stairs.

Approaching the door, Kersey's hand gripped his firearm. He had a brown comb-over and a symmetrical face, with blue eyes, a grey suit and a striped black tie. Getting to the third floor, he swung the door open to see Zachary gone and Murrow's body lying on the ground.

Taking a careful approach, he raised his weapon and looked for any irregularities. Any shifts in light or any shadows moving quickly. He glimpsed a reflection from the barrel of a gun - and three shots went off near the doorway, missing Kersey by a few feet. Returning fire, he saw the silhouette of his target near a normal, everyday minivan. The target was taking fire as Kersey advanced.

From a camera in the corner, Samaritan went to work pinpointing the target, the circle around his head buffered as a 'TARGET_LOCK' commenced. Finding him hiding behind the green minivan, Samaritan honed in on Detective Kane just as he attempted to reload, only to find that he was out of bullets.

SOUTH GARAGE PERIM CAM 08 - 10:35:21

 **X / / / PRIORITY TARGET IDENTIFIED**

DESIGNATION **: THREAT TO SYSTEM**

NAME: KANE, RICHARD

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

LOCATION: 38.9072°, - 77.0369°

Now out of ammo, Kane slipped past the cars and ran towards the stairs at the other side of the parking lot. Kersey chased after him, seeing his fleeing reflection in one of the car's windows. Dodging the stray bullets that smashed glass and impacted metal, Detective Kane headed towards the stairs and ducked past the door that was leaning ajar.

Letting Zachary sweep the upper levels in case he took the elevator back up, Kersey was sent to pursue the Detective from his current hiding place. Seeing the cop rush by the cars and hide at the other end of the parking garage, Kersey knew that the policeman was now out of options and ammunition.

Pushing past the pillar near the door, he fixed his suit-jacket just as he began to prowl across the parking lot's second floor.

Walking after him, Kersey pressed his finger to his earpiece, straightening up and placing his firearm in his back pocket. "Directions" He requested.

Samaritan began working behind the scenes, finding floor-plans, multiple camera and dash-cam feeds, linking the WiFi signal to the target's phone, listening to the footsteps of the corridors around them. Kersey stood still until a deep mechanical voice spoke into his miniature earpiece.

"RIGHT. SOUTH PARKING WING. TARGET AT 25.59 METERS. ELIMINATE TARGET" Samaritan issued with a robotic, cold command. Kersey held onto his pistol as he stalked between the cars, going between their frames and hearing his own footsteps on the ground.

Knowing that the Detective could be between any car, hiding behind any pillar, that's what kept him on edge. Kersey was former Military and private security, just like Zachary, and he had a history with Lambert in the SAS.

Such history brought them both to missions like these, places where the enemy was invisible. This was the war they fought in now - an invisible enemy like the Machine could employ many men like Kane, Police officers and law-bringers, so it was up to Samaritan to get to them first. Snatching up all the useful people in the world, and gathering a small army before the Machine has any chance to regroup. Already they had expanded to Decima's home turf in China, with Japan's infrastructure and financial sector added to the fold weeks later.

Working like a spider in a web, Samaritan had infiltrated the FBI within hours, and the CIA within days. Soon the American media and government followed. The mandate was expanding, with Greer fostering the creation of new objectives and the assignment of assets.

Preferring to take a position as chief subordinate, the old Englishman became the Admin, and would serve only to advise and counsel Samaritan in it's early stages.

With Murrow wounded, Kersey cocked his pistol and heard the echo of the footsteps from a standard, brown low-rider behind him. Turning on his heel, he aimed his Walther P99C at a civilian - the middle-aged male dropped two fully loaded shopping bags. "Oh my god-" He gasped as Kersey raised a hand to him. "It's alright, it'll be okay" Kersey replied quickly as he squeezed the trigger twice - knocking the innocent over with two shots to the chest. The man's body flew back and smacked the ground just as Kersey turned to a frustrated shout of resistance.

Detective Kane emerged from behind a Sedan, Murrow's SIG-Sauer in his hands, he discarded his own sidearm and must have swiped the Asset's weapon from the initial site of the attack.

But none of that mattered now as the New York cop opened fire with six shots into Kersey's chest. Tearing past his suit and tie, Kersey's body rocked with the bullets, his body stiffening as he still stood, his posture recovering.

Seeing Kane's face turn to confusion, the special-forces Asset extended his arm and fired three shots into the policeman's midsection. Impacting under his shirt, Kersey exposed his Kevlar vest hidden under his button-up and tie. Picking a few bullets from it, his shrugged as he approached the bleeding detective on the ground.

Kane slumped around on the floor of the parking garage, Murrow's weapon flying under another car, Kane's chest was littered in a few holes, as his hands fumbled near his wounds.

Stepping around the bullet casings that were dotted around him, Kersey saw the shadow of Zachary at the doorway to the second floor, standing near the entrance to the elevator. Touching his earpiece, he cocked his head to the side as he watched Kersey step over the writhing officer.

"It almost seems too easy like this, Detective" Kersey boasted, lowering his weapon slowly to meet the man's forehead. His hands reached behind himself, Kane quickly searched his pockets as he saw the shadow and almost-pixilated form of his attacker prepare to execute him. Suddenly feeling cold steel around his hand, his digits gripped the handle of a weapon. The bronze and gunmetal item was a pistol.

A Smith & Wesson 442, with a bronze handle, a black barrel and crooked hammer. 'If you're not gonna accept help, then at least carry two guns' Captain Moreno had warned him more than a week ago. He had took the revolver when he left the NYPD Precinct and stuffed it into the pocket of his blazer, just where it was now. Reaching into his jacket to grab it, he pulled it out and pulled back the hammer with his thumb just in time.

Raising it suddenly, the revolver's cylinder clicked when he aimed it at the black-suited assassin. Pulling the trigger without much hesitation, the near point-blank shot blew through the enforcer's head.

Kersey's body jerked back immediately. His head now an empty, fleshy hole where his face used to be. Dripping down his neck, the blood drenched the body of his killer.

Detective Kane scrambled away before James Kersey's body lost all control of itself, his gun clacked to the floor of the parking garage and soon his body followed. A pool of metallic crimson flowed rapidly seconds later, when Zachary drew his own sidearm without missing a beat.

But there had been a pause - however small, that allowed Richard Kane to get to his feet, grabbing the dead Kersey's gun, he fired with both weapons at once.

Showering Zachary in gunfire which he barely avoided, just by dodging in time. Using the firefight to escape, Kane darted away as Zachary hunted him, reloading, he tapped his earpiece with one finger. "We have a escaped target and two agents down. Requesting all agents in the immediate area for backup and a search of the perimeter" He said as he fired a loose shot, which grazed the side of Kane's chest.

WEST GARAGE SEC 2 CAM 04 - 10:52:17

Pushing the doors open to a service-entrance, Kane examined his injuries - one bullet in the shoulder, arm, three in the midsection and one across the chest. Taking his blazer off, he grabbed his NYPD shield-badge and pinned it to his slacks just as he fitted his revolver into his back pocket.

Holding the dead assailant's gun, he braced as he staggered down to the ground floor. Using the west stairs should keep him off the radar for now. He noticed less cameras in these empty stairwells.

Trying to think about his enemies, he knew that they were mostly military, using tactics and weapons seen in the armed forces. They weren't in any obvious uniform, but had been communicating through earpieces and clearly had no regard for innocent life. Piecing it together, a rogue thought-train pinned them as Rasmussen's hired killers, or a hit-squad sent by the mysterious Phillip Hayes.

He had already traced Hayes to Rasmussen, and both of them to the defunct technology company called Rylatech, which the media company had taken control of after their stock crashed. But if they had been sent to kill him, then who was the voice on the phone? He had been warned just minutes before. Time enough for his paranoia to strike, time enough for him to fight back against the assassins.

Kane accepted that these killers were there for him, so they must have been sent by someone. The voice that warned him was a factor too, it could lead him to the source of the mystery. 'You're being targeted for what you know, detective. They see you as a target. Your life means little to them, only because you pose a risk to exposing them. They're ten steps ahead of you, and their game is still unknown' The voice on the phone had revealed.

Digging into the back of his pockets, he found his phone that he had misplaced before the attack had begun. Nearly failing as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he felt the blood rush from his injuries.

Quickly taking out his phone, he tried calling the number that had phoned him to warn him, but it was predictable when he didn't get an answer. Then he scrolled through his contacts and located Captain Moreno at the 8th Precinct.

Kane sat in the lowest stair, huffing as he held the phone and felt the pain of the bullets that would soon drain him of his blood. As he was going to hear her voice, he could warn her of the events, and that he was right about Rasmussen and his connections to the underbelly of the hyper-futuristic criminal world.

He listened to the ringing of the phone as his world became a kaleidoscope around him...

Time had ran out. The world had shifted and changed as electronic beats followed, like a never-ending drum. The beats formed into flashing lights, erasing Kane and his surroundings. Seconds later, a white screen replaced all reality as a digital sheet of schematics appeared.

 **SIMULATION UNSUCCESSFUL_**

ASSETS TERMINATED: 2

TARGETS ELIMINATED: 0

 **MISSION OUTCOME: FAILURE**

LOCATION: JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA

PRECISE LOCATION: 9 MAIN STREET, MEREDALE, JOHANNESBURG 2091

SUB2_SRVRM_4 CAM 07 - 06:49:50

 **ASSET/ / 573**

"Sir, he survived again. He killed two of our men and didn't get us any closer to discovering what he's doing with the information" Stewart reported from a quick review of the footage from a nearby monitor. Placing his hands on the side of desk, he leaned against the computer as he looked into the window on the other side of the server room.

Since they had explained the idea of using old code from the Machine, the technician teams at the secure facility had been working tirelessly to improve the simulation engines, to make it operate much more like the Machine in it's later stages. Being able to run such situations and simulations were a key part of the advanced code, and the team was working hard to be able to advance Samaritan to the same stage.

Tinkering with the large, box-like servers in the room, Stewart presided over his team of boffins. "Did the voice interfere again?" Asked the English voice on the other side of the glass. Lambert looks into his own reflection in the window, seeing Stewart nod and fiddle with a set of buttons on the closest computer terminal. He pressed a few buttons and moved a couple of switches.

Clearing his throat, the lead technician stared at the rows of generators. "Again, it seems that whoever contacts Detective Kane wants a firefight to ensue, we should be careful of that variable in the future...but there's good news; Kane waited an extra two and a half minutes before he fled the scene" Stewart divulged.

Clad in a striped three-piece suit and plain dark tie, Lambert huffed as they door to the observation room opened "How uplifting. It appears that we have a few more kinks to iron out" Lambert said.

Wickham later walked in after shutting the door. He was a middle-aged, brown-haired man, formerly dressed in a security uniform - now he wore the sharp black suit of a Samaritan enforcer.

In the server room, the technicians were carrying fistfuls of wires and boxes with flashing LEDs, connecting them to the larger terminals, they hurried around with determination on their faces. Behind the window, Wickham folded his arms "Shall we give it another go, Sir?" He said while his eyes flicked between the generators and his superior. Lambert squinted to see the results of the simulation test on Stewart's screen.

"Yes, start the simulation again with haste" Lambert instructed, as his bodyguard and facility manager Wickham rolled his eyes, stepping away and out of the view of the people in the generator and server room.

The staff began to unplug and plug in new cables and boxes of code and programs. Turning to his laptop screen, Stewart typed a few lines of code and watched as the monitor flickered. The screen went completely white, then produced a few black boxes of text in green and white.

SIMULATION NUMBER_

1476

Stewart stood to the side, turning his screen to show Lambert a view of Kane, replenished and dressed, walking to his car in the same parking garage. The simulation started over again as Stewart declared it to the room. Wickham raised his head when he saw the photo-realistic background and all the pixels flatten out to form an image of the Detective approaching his vehicle.

"It looks like we have all the time in the world, Detective Kane" Wickham remarked as Lambert focussed on the monitor displaying the video simulation. Stepping into his virtual car, Kane opened his phone and look around. Straightening up, Jeremy hummed while the simulation ran as ordered, not a flaw to be seen so far.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: NOVEMBER 17th 2008

LOCATION: Long Island City, NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: GANTRY PLAZA STATE PARK

HPSP CAM 12 - 23:40:29

The waterside plaza was nearly empty as the moon finally went under the dark clouds that surrounded the bayside area. Under the cover of dark, a small fleet of black SUVs escorted a low-riding Limousine to the Gantry.

Under the shining stars, the night came with such a bitterness that the rusted brown railings take on the appearance of a sugared bars in the moonlight. The cold steals every bit of water from the air it can in its frenzy to frost over the cityscape.

Night had fallen fast over New York, no more than an hour ago the sky was painted with hues of red, orange and pink, but all colour had faded leaving only a matte black canvas with a sea of stars to be looked upon. The sky was a rolling blanket of cloud the shades of dripping wet ash, and the ground its dank reflection.

Shimmering stars illuminated the moonless, jet black sky, as if to remind them that even in darkness there is still light.

The air was still and heavy, thick clouds covered half the sky. A cool breeze swept the alienated and sleepless streets. Standing at the side of the plaza and looking out to the shining water, Greer stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Wearing a dark blue shirt with a lighter blue striped tie, his pinstripe suit was adjusted by his wrinkled hands. Watching an extra SUV pull up outside his perimeter, the doors rolled open and a coat-wearing Decima Agent stepped out.

Drake was stocky and yet had a strange quickness; it added a sharpness to his voice when he spoke. He was slightly taller than Greer, having wrapped himself in a long black coat and a dim grey suit. The fox-faced man approached Greer with his hands by his sides, an empty holster strapped under his blazer. Bowing his head before the Operations Director, Drake stopped before stepping on the sidewalk beside his superior.

Beginning to walk, Greer cleared his throat "Good evening, I believe that I sent for Mr Lambert, and here you are" He began, looking out across the bay.

The loyal, tactically-trained Agent nodded again. "You did, Sir. But he was called away on urgent business, one his teams got a lead on our primary target" Drake referenced.

The manhunt for Holloway had continued, getting no closer than the day they lost him. A former contractor, Decima Executives didn't take kindly to a rogue freelance official. It would only be a matter of time until Holloway appeared again, Greer knew. There were now worries of what information he might spill.

"Unlike most agents, Lambert understands the danger that Holloway presents us. His disappearance has raised concerns among the Decima Executive Board, they've tasked us with removing him" Greer articulated. Walking across the gangway, Drake heard the distant rumble of an aircraft. "We have his sister, Elyse. With any luck, her interrogation can yield new results" Drake hoped.

Smiling, Greer's face was a haunting mask of age. Drake had learned that in this career, an old man is to be feared, especially in the company of such young men.

Looking down at his feet, Drake turned back to the Director "There has been concerns that our attack on the ISA has struck the hornets' nest" Drake mentioned. He had been apart of that attack, storming the Office of Special Counsel and seizing some important information that was classified to the group.

But only Greer and a select few knew the purpose of the attack. It had been to remove a key piece of the ISA's improved weapon; Northern Lights. "I wouldn't be worrying about the government...have you ever read the Classics, Drake?" He asked, a stark tone in his voice. Raising his head, Drake pulled down the sleeves of his coat "I haven't given them any serious thought, Sir" He admitted.

"Do you recall The Titans? The old gods? They were so afraid of the new gods, their own children, that they ate them. You worked for the old gods once, Drake. It was them that betrayed you" Greer pointed out, his hand gesturing towards the lean, neatly-dressed Agent. Drake's history was as muddled as his origins, but he had once been at the beck and call of the American Government and their international intelligence services.

Drake didn't want to answer. He simply kept silent, waiting for the Director to make his point as he noticed strategically placed bodyguards by every lamppost and SUV. Even the man-mountain Zachary was present, guarding Greer's jet-black limousine.

HPSP CAM 16 - 23:46:01

"Then you must remember how the old gods were finally killed? Before the god of the harvest, Cronus, could eat his youngest child, Zeus, he wrapped a boulder in his swaddling clothes and watched as his father slowly choked on it" Greer told him.

They walked together as Greer led him down past the waterfront. Hesitant to reply, Drake pursed his lips. He knew that even the worldwide government abandon those that no longer prove useful, that was the story with most who come to Decima.

Even proud, honest and loyal men like Bryant have histories. The newest group had brought out only one worthy to be accepted into Parkhurst; Martine Rousseau. Though another female, codenamed Cinder, had been brought along with her - Rousseau had always been the standout. Having finished her training at the facility in Maine, Martine had taken to active duty - taking missions from New York to London.

After Cinder was successful in capturing Holloway's sister, Elyse was confined to the empty office building on Wall Street - Greer's temporary command base and operative meeting point.

"Lambert informed us that you planned for Ms Rousseau to resume interrogation of the Holloway girl?" Drake diverted. Greer gave a stout nod, wordless as he continued down the stretch of the boardwalk. Following a step behind, Drake noticed two derelict security cameras hanging from a light-post.

"Mr Holloway's selection process, combined with our training has produced an excellent standard of agent in the past. The loss of our primary contractor will be a problem in the future, but the problem will be even bigger if we let him slip away" Greer punctuated. Contractors were freelance, not meant to give rogue - their silence would be assured with the sum of money given to their next of kin should they die on the job.

Leighton Holloway chose his sister, so Decima took her out of the game. "We isolated his weakest link. Elyse will remain alive and in our custody until Mr Holloway reveals himself" Drake told him, wiping his tone of emotion.

Greer smiled in response, and adjusted his cuffs. Approaching the end of the gangway, the water below them lapped against the side of the wooden supports. With Zachary following closely behind them, Greer turned sharply to Drake.

"I'm putting you in charge of the search-party, every resource will be yours. Lambert and Martine will continue to interrogate Ms Holloway and provide you with any updates, while Virgil maintains digital, global surveillance" Greer issued. His security team flanking his side, Drake blinked briefly. Turning around after thanking the Operations Director, Drake began to walk in the opposite direction, until Greer called his attention again.

"Mr Drake, I don't need to remind you of the price for failure once again, do I?" He questioned, his stern eyes piercing into Drake's deep soul. He gritted teeth behind his back, and turned back around to face the short old man. "No, Mr Greer. Thank you" He appeased, going back to his car with a chip on his shoulder and a clear mission. Both things were obviously Decima's recruitment standards.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 20th 2014

LOCATION: NEW YORK STATE, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

SC 6 - 09:07:16

Standing below the wall-mounted screen, Samaritan's Admin and asset controller had been pouring over a low-resolution photograph of a UPS deliveryman, the same one that attacked the Coronet Hotel in Midtown Manhattan. Three of Greer's assets had been threatened, one killed and one fatally injured.

The picture he looked at was taken from a security camera in the lobby, and showed a burly man in grey overalls. He had a plain face with some stubble and scruff. Seen pushing a cart of boxes where he had hidden an automatic handgun and a sawn-off shotgun.

Both weapons he had used to attack the agent stationed in the Hotel. Studying the image, Greer looked up at the screen which showed day-to-day security camera footage.

The assailant had no name, without any ID or identification on him. Samaritan had searched through the global and nationwide UPS staff and found nothing, no trace of the attacker. Unfortunately however, the man was killed in the fighting, so he couldn't be interrogated for any further information.

The three assets at the hotel had been stationed to monitor local events from a safe location, and to survey a target for future recruitment. But the task was cut dramatically short. The shotgun-wielding attacker had killed a technician called Warren Pike, and wounded a former FBI Case Officer known as Weiss.

The only agent stationed in the hotel and not injured was Martine Rousseau, a New York-born, former Hague investigator. She claimed to know the identity of the man, as an enforcer for the so-called Shadow Army, a league of European and Russian terrorists. Greer was puzzled at that, as he had once instructed Leighton Holloway to hire the Shadow Army's deceased leader, Nazarov Tarasovich.

An outfit created by criminals that Decima put together, this Vigilance prototype failed as soon as FSB Section Chief called Vladislav Chekhov got involved.

Radicalising the group, he formed a friendship with Tarasovich (whom he had known all along) and split from Decima's control. Greer had handed their destruction to the ISA, who confirmed Chekhov's death in a surprise raid of their hideout in Oregon.

Clearly the government got it wrong. If Martine was right and the hotel shooter was from the Shadow Army, and an assassin sent with a clear agenda. Samaritan had been decoding the footage, but found no link between the Hotel shooter and the terrorist group. Going through the ISA archives, Samaritan pulled up FBI and CIA case files, finding links from Tarasovich to several smaller groups in the Middle East and Ukraine, but found nothing that could provide a connective tissue.

But Greer had one hidden, secret weapon that Samaritan had recruited. Not just Martine, but her former rival and a target of Decima investigation; Georgia Newport.

Captured during Samaritan's first purge of criminals, Georgia had evaded them for years. Having her high IQ and technical experience was a blessing, as Newport had already modified Samaritan's UI and higher functions. Keeping Georgia in a secure and solitary confinement cell, she was only released to work (supervised) on the mainframe below the Asylum.

When showing the image of the shotgun-wielding attacker to Newport, she said that she had no idea who he could be. Suspecting that he was hired or joined the group after she defected.

Newport had been labelled a 'High-value target' by the FBI and was wanted by Interpol and the GCHQ for multiple offences. Samaritan had kept her hidden, using her as a servant, someone to provide information and collect data.

Greer had recently visited Georgia in her cell, their conversation concerned a serious of targets that Samaritan had picked out from the remnants of Vigilance, but nothing that could hint to the Shadow Army's return.

She was still as milky and scar-covered as when she left prison. Her skin was pale with dyed hair that was a jet-black flecked with dark blue. Newport's body had a thin and wiry structure, like a otherworldly soul possessing a long-dead body.

His technicians busy on the computers around him, Greer looked back up at the wall-sized screen, which showed Samaritan filing through CIA persons of interest.

The door to the command room suddenly opened, the noise of clicking heels followed as Martine walked to his side. Wearing a sleeveless button-up with a high neckline, she stood behind Greer and observed the screen, a bandage wrapped around her right forearm where she had sustained a minor injury of bullet shrapnel.

"You summoned me, Sir?" Martine said coldly.

"Samaritan has uncovered evidence that your attacker at the Coronet Hotel may be a new member of the so-called Shadow Army. What did you know of him?" Greer responded, as the ASI went through the camera footage again. Martine, tilting her head, glanced at Wyatt who was working beside her.

She cleared her throat "His name isn't on any database, he doesn't have a name. That's what Vladislav Chekhov ensured, that his agents wouldn't be traceable by any digital means. I recognised him from my files at The Hague, he worked for Mossad as an interrogator" She informed him, to which Greer simply huffed.

There had been rumours of the Shadow Army fleeing to Mexico, Sweden and Russia, but nothing ever came of such rumours. Many of Chekhov's Lieutenants had either been killed or taken captive by the government. Most of them were eliminated by a single ISA operation that destroyed a hideout of theirs. Greer placed the photograph on the table, his eyebrows creasing.

Martine soon stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him. "The question remains of how he knew the location of our operation. Samaritan is decoding possible solutions to this, as we believe that he may have avoided cameras and detection prior to the attack" Greer theorised.

Rousseau would never forget a face, but it left much to still be answered. "Escape from surveillance? How is that possible?" She questioned.

"In the past, they have proven to be particularly elusive. If he is indeed from this so-called Shadow Army, I wonder if it's connected to our underground friends..." Greer pondered, folding his hands behind his back. Team Machine was still in hiding, without a trace of them to be seen. Then, Samaritan's screen faded into white pixels, producing three words on it's almighty screen.

IDENTIFY_POSSIBLE_ASSOCIATES

Greer nodded as Martine took a step forward "Of course you want me to track them down" She looked back to Greer, who slowly shook his head. "I'm afraid because of your connection this case and your history with the group, you're being transferred to an equally important, yet further-afield mission" He redirected.

Going to pick up a second image from the table, Samaritan's UI shifted to show a map of a rural New York town outside the City. "This is Maple, the setting for a new chapter which is opening in Samaritan's evolution. To truly test the balance of human nature, we require more than just a few select subjects" Greer began as he passed Martine a slip of paper containing a single image.

The photography was of a woman, middle-aged with a straight face, pointed ears and a flat nose. She looked like a government official, as the photography was taken outside a hospital ward and the woman was getting out of black Sedan.

"That is Maryann Holst, an administrator at a Cardiovascular Surgery in Pittsburgh...a week ago, she had a heart-attack at the steps of her workplace" Greer said with an almost emotionally devoid tone.

Martine studied the image as her SSN and profile was shown by Samaritan. "She was put into a medically-induced coma and Samaritan has isolated her as a potential collaborator. You'll be sent to Maple General Hospital, where you'll make contact with our asset on-site and persuade Mrs Holst to follow our instructions, for the foreseeable future" Greer asserted. Placing his hand in the table beside him, the Admin smirked.

"We don't work miracles, Greer, I'll need a bargaining chip" Martine replied. Predictably, the older man breathed a laugh. His brow furrowed and then relaxed as he explained.

"What does a man on his deathbed ask for? A chance to start again. We shall give Mrs Holst a second chance, Martine. Our on-site asset has procured a state-of-the-art pacemaker, one that can save that woman from almost certain death" He pointed to the image of Holst on the screen. Martine folded her arms, and turned back to the map of Maple, New York. "She's going to become one with Samaritan. She will preside over our little experiment, keeping it running smoothly, and making sure the occupants have no idea what's really happening" He punctuated.

Samaritan was taking control of an entire town, Martine understood suddenly. Manipulating events, it would serve as god over the suburban town. Using an overseer like Holst to serve as councilwoman and contact. "Just like us, she has to start again. With a second chance at life, she'll be needing a new name" Martine noted, as Greer presented her with a brown paper file.

"Already taken care of...as of tomorrow, Maryann Holst will have died in the Pittsburgh ER. But Leslie Thompson will arrive in Maple in her place" He remarked proudly. The hospital records that Samaritan flashed up on the screen showed that Holst had been moved to a classified ward, and the doctors were all registered with 'Asset' name above their heads from the view of the hospital's cameras.

"Her life has to be wiped away so that we can start anew. In Maple, everyone will be rewarded according to their abilities, perhaps random acts of chance - but such is life, my dear" Greer addressed, handing the photograph over to Martine.

Walking away, Martine noticed as the door opened and Sykes appeared through the gap, holding a phone and having an odd look about his face. He passed her without a word as Greer called her back with the smooth allure of his voice "And Martine?" He called, as the woman span on her heel. "Sir?"

"A few must be displaced, so that the majority may thrive. Enjoy yourself, and Samaritan will continue to do it's part" He smirked again in his wipe-lipped manner as Sykes leant down to whisper in his ear. Martine meanwhile exited the room, pressing on her earpiece for further instructions about her new mission.


	35. Chapter 35: Firewall

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: NOVEMBER 18th 2012

LOCATION: New Rochelle, NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: BLESSED SACRAMENT-ST. JONATHON HIGH SCHOOL

NORTH PERIMETER 03 - 01:02:55

Pulling into the School's empty parking lot, the Hummer H2s slowly stopped about half a mile away from the school's doors. They had driven in mostly silence, as Floyd and Link hadn't dared say anything. The school looked like a strange castle in the nighttime, perhaps some museum that had been abandoned long ago. Mini's driver had contacted someone called 'Lennox' a contact of his, and someone who could be useful moving the drugs that Link had offered.

Of course, he had only offered them in exchange for their freedom from Elias's gang. It was a hard thing to buy, as Elias often had loyalty on lockdown, his assistants and enforcers keeping and upholding his law for the criminals in New York. But as the boroughs had been split by fighting, the Brotherhood had been allowed to rise in the shadows. Their mysterious leader, much like Elias, had built power through uneasy alliances.

Dominic had secured the support of Link's gang, and splinters from New York City's most infamous criminal circuits. Garcia and his Trinitario friends had declined to joined them at this moment, as they still had ties to HR.

Clasping his hands together, Link thought about the weapons he had given to the Brotherhood. The Barrett XM109's, they had stolen them off an old NYPD lockup site a while back. Such powerful instruments were supposed to be going to Elias.

Instead, Link had used them to leverage the deal, as well as Floyd's money from a previous heist. But it was all riding on the blocks of drugs they had brought, Mini mentioned something about an inspection, but taking them to a school wouldn't seem like a step in his plan.

The second Hummer drove on ahead, the doors opening and the goons stepping out. Some carrying handguns, the others opened the trunk and started to unload the packs and boxes of drugs that Link had given them as an offering.

Link Cordell swallowed in the backseat of the vehicle as Floyd leant on the window, watching the men take the boxes inside the school's North entrance. Touching her forehead, Evelyn took a breath as one of the men signalled to Mini and his driver.

The man known as 'The Armorer' was present too, wielding the same Jericho 941RPL pistol he had threatened Link with.

The Armorer greeted another tall (yet thinner) man dressed in street clothes. They shook hands and the thin man pointed to the Hummer that Evelyn and Link sat in. Going to open the door, Mini turned around after grabbing something from the glovebox - a suppressed Glock 18. Leaning back on the seat, his finger touched the trigger as he balanced the gun on the back of the driver's seat.

"You don't talk in there. Only talk when you're asked something, you're in the game now. Elias doesn't even deal with these guys, so keep your eyes down and your guard up." Mini advised them, opening the door and tucking the gun into his coat's pocket. The driver got out next and followed, then Floyd kicked her door open and stepped out, followed by Link.

Walking to the school, Mini and his group were ushered inside by the thinner man, who Mini welcomed with a nod. Entering through the North entrance, their escort guided them down the corridor. They had to walk past the empty classrooms, shadowed in darkness, and the dusty hallways littered with pictures of smiling students.

Looking at the brightly coloured cardboard displays that covered the dark walls of the North wing, Floyd was faced with old memories of her own school; The halls would be crowded with people, and the chaos would be perfect, like a movie. There would have been the couple that was always kissing passionately at the side of the hall, about ten feet further down, there would be the clique of girls.

Opposite them, the clique of jocks, between them, the parade of band-geeks with their huge instrument cases. There would be the rogue kids who never did anything but make paper airplanes and the fashion and popular kids that wheeled mannequins and clothing racks down the halls.

But then there was Floyd, who didn't fit into any of those groups. She would stare from the windows, and wonder if a life awaited her on the outside.

She should have known what would happen after. Falling in with Elias and his gang, men like Scarface whispering sweet nothings with no promises.

Her face was cast in the darkness as they continued down the hallway, then lit up in the artificial lights.

Somehow, all the doors to the school were open, but not a thing seem disturbed, innocent and carefree, like the school was untouched by time itself. Noticing the hidden camera in a glass trophy cabinet, Link admired his reflection slightly.

"It's just up here, they're expecting us." The thin man said dryly. He took Mini, Floyd, Link and the others into a larger hall. A basketball court just through a pair of double-doors. Already, the Armorer's men had brought in the cocaine blocks that Link had provided as an offering.

The thin man stepped to the side to reveal three pale-skinned individuals. One was female, and gave Evelyn an icy-eyed look. She had a stern face, and taught, straw-like hair that was pulled back into a bun. With lips tinted red, the woman wore a boxy suit and had a shield-badge in her hand. The woman was straight-backed, with pointed ears and a button-nose.

The men beside her wore the same cut of suit, dark blues and black shades with patterned ties. The tallest man had stubble, a five o'clock shadow and a flat-top haircut. Both looked like Police, with obvious weapon holsters attached to the underside of their jackets. The woman stepped forward first as Mini and the thin man approached.

GYM A CAM 04 - 01:19:05

She flashed her badge; DEA. "Special Agent Lennox, this is Thomsen and Neal, we spoke on the phone." She addressed Mini, who nodded. The cloudy white blocks arranged in front of them, Floyd stood beside Link who shuffled in his place. "We understand these came from a cook in Albany, correct?" Agent Neal asked, adjusting his glasses.

Link stuttered as the question was aimed at him, Mini shot him a glance and Link answered "Uh, yeah, yeah - we've - I've worked with him before." He stammered, and Neal responded with a grunt. Stepping forward, Agent Lennox put her hands on her curved hips. "We'll need a background check on him if-"

She was cut off by Mini who stood in-between her and Link "You won't need anything if this product is up to snuff, so tell me what I have here." He demanded with a pinch of a threat. Taking on a more authoritative voice, Mini touched his sidearm.

Lennox yielded, and instructed her escorts to check the blocks of condensed white powder in the middle of the court. They kneeled down to them one by one and pulled out some disposable, CSI-style gloves. Picking them up, the Agents looked at the contents and then laid them down carefully. Lennox and Mini each glancing between the two, while Evelyn stood back behind the armed men.

Touching his nose awkwardly, Link brushed his shirt with his other hand as the inspection continued. The DEA Agents looked at each block individually, and then they placed them back down.

"How many?" Mini questioned. Link slowly walked over to Floyd's side, and folded his arms. Agent Lennox signalled to her escorts, who pulled off their gloves and flanked her.

"Five. Four, if you're being technical." She said specifically. Mini seemed to be content with that, gesturing to her. The female Agent pointed to four of the blocks on the ground, and then the Brotherhood's men moved the refined cocaine over to her side of the basketball court. The thin man ringed his hands together as Floyd noticed him standing near the corner.

Mini waited a beat "I'll expect a cut in the next few days, file it through the Armorer's account." He instructed, and Lennox nodded accordingly.

The thin man was now standing behind Floyd, his hands behind his back and his eyes hooded by shadow.

The DEA and Mini were speaking generally, until Link broke the conversation abruptly "What about the rest?" He spat, louder than he intended. Mini's head turned like an owl, his face was stern and stoic. Floyd cringed, her whole body shivering briefly in fear. Didn't he remember what Mini had said?

He was suddenly saved the consequences as the side-doors to the basketball court opened and laughter followed. Two young boys, about sixteen or seventeen, Floyd guessed. One was carrying a basketball, the other, paler boy was wearing a sports' jersey.

The basketball dropped to the floor and bounced as the boys were frozen still.

The laughter had instantly ceased as the DEA pulled their weapons. Thomsen and Neal held SIG-Sauers on the boys. Even the thin man had a Walther P22, raised and aimed to the boy's heads. The pistols clicked as they prepared to fire.

Mini cautioned them, halting the enforcers. The thin man lowered his gun as Lennox did the same "They're kids, Neal, just stupid kids." She murmured under her breath.

"You boys play ball?" Mini started with, addressing the two teens informally. The orange and black basketball rolled to his feet and stopped. The shorter boy nodded a couple times, still looking at the DEA Agents who sheathed their weapons. Link unfolded his arms and waited, as a slight worry creeped into Floyd's head.

The paler boy eyed Lennox "They're Cops, right?" He said brazenly. His companion now focussed on the large packets of drugs on the ground. "Smart. They're Feds, and do you know who we are?" Mini changed his tone to a friendlier one. The boy who wore the hat knew, as he looked at Lennox, who refused to meet his eyes. "The Brotherhood." He pointed out.

Confirming what the boy said, Mini agreed "We are. You see, in this town, the Feds work for us. Cops and police can do what they like, but their bosses can't do shit compared to we can do. We run this city now." Mini postulated.

The two boys looked at each other, as the taller one looked like he was holding something.

Taking it out his jacket, he held a switchblade. Probably taken off the streets, the boy held it how a girl would hold a hairdryer. The Armorer could be heard reaching for his gun, and Mini raised a hand for him to stop. "They've seen our faces! They get out, we're all done!" The Armorer argued.

Turning his head, Mini's gaze silenced the trigger-happy Armorer. Going back to the youths, Mini looked down at the baseball cap-wearing boy. "You know about us?" He inquired gently.

The teen nodded "I had a brother...Lamar, he joined your crew when you went against Elias. Then some Detective got him." The boy lamented.

"Is that right? What about you?" Mini turned to the teen who held the switchblade. The paler youth shook his head, scratching his eyebrow "I knew a corner-boy for-"

The metallic blast of a suppressed gunshot went off when Mini popped the paler boy in the head. Holding his silenced Glock, he turned to the shorter boy before the limp body even dropped to the ground. "Go." He instructed coldly.

Turning to run, the shorter boy took off his baseball cap and raced to the door before Mini shot him in the back of the head. A trail of blood leaking from the metal doors where he had just reached freedom, Mini glanced at Agent Lennox. "Mop this up, and wipe the cameras." He spoke as if he'd done this all before.

Walking to the side of The Armorer, Mini leant down to his shoulder as his lips barely moved "Stay with them, make sure they properly dispose of the bodies." He instructed to his subordinate, who gladly agreed as Mini swaggered a few steps towards the doors.

He pushed the left-hand door open, and glanced back at the thin man. "They come with me. They're in now." Mini told him, referring to Link and Floyd. The bodyguards from Mini's crew escorted the thin man out of the room, as Link and Floyd were implored to go with them. "You didn't see that in there, and that's how it'll say. This is what you wanted, you're in the Brotherhood now." Mini said while walking.

"Which means you'll never have to worry about Elias ever again." He concluded.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 21st 2014

LOCATION: Maple, NEW YORK STATE, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: MAPLE GENERAL HOSPITAL

WARD 5 CAM 2 - 05:19:22

The town of Maple was ideal, picturesque, one could say. It was devoid of traffic, skyscrapers or smog. Getting out of the hectic and bustled streets of New York was a blessing that Martine needed as she watched the sign for Maple speed by.

Though she couldn't forget what she had just come from, Weiss in a critical condition and Samaritan rushing to locate the dangerously knowledgeable attacker.

So far, the man had been traced to the Shadow Army, and his picture was in the process of being decrypted. Most likely Greer was using all his assets on the case, one by one they'd be dispatched and one by one they'd come back with nothing. It was almost getting too predictable at this point.

Travelling in an SUV to the Hospital, Martine was escorted by four men, each wearing dull grey suits and carrying fake FBI shields, pinned to their midsections. Her expression was mute as they pulled into the Ambulance bay of the hospital, and the door swung open. Stepping out and tilting her head until she heard a relaxing crack, Martine began to stride into the entrance of the hospital's reception.

Her black stiletto heels clicked on the freshly shined floor as Martine approached the front desk, escorted by her faceless bodyguards. The reception was quiet, with a bench and a few small stalls, selling greeting cards and plastic flowers. Behind the neat and mirror-like desk was an arrangement of papers and a potted plant, along with a woman dressed in a blouse and blazer.

She had faded green eyes and a square jawline, with brunette hair, tied back into a ponytail. Her name tag was labelled 'Katherine Piper: Receptionist' and Martine looked her up and down as she approached with a cold mask of determination on her face. "Agent Megan Watkins, Homeland Security. I understand this hospital is holding a person of interest in an investigation?" Martine began with.

Piper was more than helpful, leaning forward on the desk as she spoke "Yes, so I've heard. In fact, a gentleman just came by here asking the same thing, he's waiting with the doctors upstairs on the second floor." The receptionist recalled, her eyes gleaming from the lights of the sterilised hospital. She pointed towards one of the casually-dressed security guards, who escorted Martine and her men up to the second floor.

The gentleman that Piper mentioned was Greer's on-site asset, who Martine saw waiting with his back turned among a troop of other soldiers for Samaritan. Entering the level via the stairwell, Martine noticed the presence of the ASI immediately as the ball-like camera's fixed their red lights to her face.

Wearing a sleeveless, tight-fitting black dress, Martine wore a knee-length overcoat and a pair of heels. Exposing her pale and hairless legs, the nearest Samaritan agent's gaze was fixed to her body as she walked past him. Seeing the ward swarmed with armed men, Martine flashed her badge to the guards at the door of bay twelve.

They let her pass without a word as she stood in front of the white curtain that separated her from the ex-deceased Maryann Holst, the former administrator at a Cardiovascular Surgery in Pittsburgh. Filing in next to Rousseau, a clean-shaven agent held a clipboard and tapped it as he stood next to her.

"Agent Watkins, we've made contact with the patient, and our representative is ready to speak with you." The asset put forth, his face wiped of emotion. Martine gave a curt nod and walked back into the corridor of the empty ward. Her surroundings were once familiar, back when she cared for such things as the health of another.

Weiss was concerning her, all this talk of hospitals, if his condition worsened, would she care? Outside the bay, she heard footsteps approach her.

A thirty-something male and a girl in her early twenties were walking her way, Martine's eyes instantly checked the female. A young brunette in a black leather jacket, zipped up to her collar, she eyed every speck of this place with daggers for pupils, her brunette eyes lined in a bronze flame.

The male was fair-haired and pale, dressed in a grey suit with a striped red tie. Despite his bespoke looks, his eyes were pure ice, cold and piercing. He carried an industrial-looking briefcase and addressed Martine in a vaguely European accent. "My name is Schmidt, this is my assistant, Brittany O'Quinn." Schmidt gestured to Brittany, who brushed a lock of brown hair away from her face.

"Greer sent me as representative to deliver the package to the patient, I understand you're here to...bring her onto the winning team?" He leered, a brief gloating smile on his face. Martine knew that Samaritan had hundreds of Representatives across the country, and thousands across the world. Schmidt was just one of a collective of former political officials or international intelligence agents.

Brittany was harder to guess, Martine assumed that she was one of Lambert's apprentices. Jeremy Lambert had been overseeing the training and teaching of new Assets and soldiers prior to Samaritan's activation. But Brittany was different, she had a passion that could only come from Samaritan's guidance.

She touched her earpiece as Martine replied "Yes, I've been sent from the Steiner by him personally. Have you been monitoring the patient?" Martine asked.

"I'd rather leave that to the doctors, we weren't exactly recruited to keep humans alive. Preserving human life - not exactly one of Samaritan's mandates." Schmidt said with a chilling inflection. Gripping his briefcase, he noticed Martine glancing it for just a second. "This is it, Holst's new lifeline." Schmidt raised his briefcase, instructing two agents to open the doors to the nearest office.

WARD 4A OFFICE CAM 2 - 05:30:48

 **ASSET/ / 029**

 **ASSET/ / 1101**

 **ASSET/ / 1348**

Schmidt lead them into the empty surgeon's office as his men shut the windows and closed the curtains. The room was soon vacated as it was just Martine, the representative and Brittany. The representative's briefcase was padded and armoured, it looked like it could have taken a high-powered bullet and still remained in one piece.

He lifted it up and placed it on the table with a thud. The office was small, with just a table and a desk by the corner, a box had been laid on the table, full of thin books and currently updated newspapers like The New York Journal, Metro Daily, and a copy of the Manhattan Today. Brittany hopped up onto the desk as Martine paced around the window.

The Samaritan liaison felt the rim of the briefcase before flipping up two buckles on the front of the case. Martine placed her hands on the top of the table as a smirk tugged at her lips. Unlocking the case, he went to lift it open with a slow pull as the door opened and Brittany's head snapped to the doorway like a predator poised to strike.

Suddenly, the plain-faced Samaritan agent stepped inside with his clipboard grasped in his hands as silhouettes flanked him in the hallway. "Sir, there's a problem. Samaritan detected a threat on the third floor, it's been contained but Doctor Haskell is here to see you." The asset relayed. Then the door bursted wide open as a lab-coat wearing Doctor walked in.

His body was simple, about a head taller than Martine, with slight stubble around his jaw and cheekbones poking from his face. Haskell's brown hair was greying, as the worry was present in his expression.

The Doctor walked into the room and the Agent shut the door behind him as he left, turning back to the corridor. "Four minutes ago, a patient was escorted into our ICU and held for containment, until your FBI suits arrived and just shut off his life-support. When I tried to access the patient files, they were locked behind a firewall, and your man outside won't let me see it." Haskell began.

"The patient was dangerous, he was carrying a blood disease that was genetic and could have infected the hospital's entire blood-bank." Brittany responded, her tone straight and truthful. Including Maryann Holst, who was currently hooked up to an IV. Idling by the door, Haskell walked over while Schmidt pulled up a chair and relaxed, interlocking his hands together.

Rubbing his chin, the Doctor glanced around, first to Martine and then to Mr. Schmidt. "This is connected to the woman you're keeping on this ward, isn't it? If our blood reserves get infected then you've lost her...for whatever reason you're keeping her here for." Doctor Haskell speculated. Schmidt raised his head, eyes wide.

"Samaritan has to secure all assets, even if that means protecting future endeavours." The representative replied.

"My staff should be still be allowed to view her records." Haskell pointed out, blinking in annoyance. Martine folded her arms, standing back from the table. Tracing the side of the desk with her thin finger, Brittany touched her belt, which Martine noticed was secured with a weapon's holster. "You wouldn't understand them anyway, so what's the point?" Martine retorted quickly.

Haskell sighed and emotion washed over his face again, his brow furrowed, he blinked furiously and leaned forwards. "Who the hell do you people think you are..." He hissed roughly, a hint of brewing anger in his voice. Suddenly, a pocket of his white doctor's coat started to vibrate. Schmidt gestured with his hand, prompting the Doctor to answer his phone.

He held his phone with a shaking hand as Greer's voice piped through the line "Mr. Schmidt and others like him are my eyes and ears inside your operation. We gave you a marvellous car, surely, you didn't think I'd let your drive it yourselves?" He said, bemused.

"Of course I did, you said we would." Haskell replied, a quiver in his voice.

"As for your unfortunate causality, Samaritan has compensated his family, and provided all the necessary arrangements and resources to bolster your ICU, should a similar case arise." Greer rasped through the phone. The Doctor glanced at Martine, who pursed her lips.

Greer's tone hardened "I'm wondering...would you like Mr. Schmidt to put the key back in the ignition?" He questioned. Sighing, Haskell nodded to himself, he had to let this matter go. Putting his ear back to the phone, the greying Doctor had defeated eyes "Fine, keep her records. Just don't turn anything off." Haskell yielded.

Immediately standing from his chair, Schmidt clicked his fingers and Brittany stepped off the desk, flanking the Doctor. "Good talk, Victor. The girl will escort you back to your ward." He remarked, dusting his jacket with the back of his hand. The young woman opened the door and followed Haskell until it was just Martine and the Representative.

"Nice work, do you always have Greer at your beck-and-call?" Martine raised an eyebrow as Schmidt went back to his briefcase. He pressed a four-digit code into a num-pad before unlocking the buckles again.

He pushed the lid open and marvelled at the LEDs and buttons inside. Inside the case was a stubby switch and a smaller box, held by a glass partition. Schmidt flicked the switch up with his thumb, and the glass barrier was raised with a whirring sound. "We represent Samaritan on official business, I am a liaison, so I liaise." Schmidt huffed.

"Greer simply supports our operations, as he supported you during your tenure with Decima." He said, his eyes quickly shifting back down to the briefcase. As a company, Decima was heading into an early grave. The executive board was days away from being fully dismantled, as the shadowy board members slipped back into anonymity.

Martine knew that the Decima Board supported Samaritan, to the point where they funded operations to secure the hardware and technology needed to activate the ASI.

Looking down at the contents of the case, Martine walked around the table to glance down inside the briefcase. Blue LED lights flickered as a thin wire was plugged into the smaller box. The wire was connected to a machine the size of Martine's ear, and covered in silver panelling.

She put her hands on her hips "Is this it? My bargaining chip with Holst?" Martine hesitated, as if it wasn't what she expected. The representative chuckled in response "Wendell's men have been working on it for months, from Decima to Samaritan, some powerful people have signed off on this thing." Schmidt explained, adding some legitimacy to the device's appearance.

Somewhat satisfied, Martine took a breath "How soon can Holst receive the surgery?" She asked at once.

"Immediately, her cooperation is all they require. We could haul her into the theatre right now, but then that'd take even more explaining on our part." Schmidt pointed out, placing his hands on the top of the case and pushing it shut. He rested his foot on the exposed chair, and leant his elbow on his knee. "Well, I guess it's more your part than mine...you wouldn't mind talking to her, would you?" He goaded.

Rolling her eyes, she blinked at him with a deadpan expression "We both know you don't give a damn wether I mind or not, Greer sent me here to recruit Holst." She went back to the subject, but Schmidt was more focused on getting a rise out of her. "Really? Samaritan doesn't choose favourites, it selects who it deems to be most effective. Simple logic and all, but Decima...those stains can get particularly hard to wash out." He poked, as Martine tilted her head.

A faint flicker of annoyance passed on her face "I don't get what you mean, most Decima agents joined Samaritan as it went online, as did I." She clarified, her hand touching the top of the briefcase. Schmidt was about to pull the case towards himself when Martine snatched it from his grasp with one hand.

Sneering, Schmidt's composure broke as his hand slammed onto the table, missing the case by an inch. "Men like Greer value respect, but Samaritan is a program, it's a set of code that can kill hundreds based on metadata in half a second, how can you go from honourable service to blind loyalty?" He questioned, a smirk on his lips.

Martine breathed and relaxed her shoulders, a calm, tight smile on her face. "The same way the son of a Polish immigrant and a German politician can rise to the position of senior staffer at the Office of Foreign Assets Control. Or do I misunderstand you, Mr. Mühle?" Martine shot back at him.

He took a long, reptilian blink "We can't all come from the glamour of a New York slum, Ms. Rousseau." He said with a devious inflection. "Some of us found salvation in Samaritan, it gave us hope, we didn't decide if and how we serve, we simply obey. That's the beauty of it, even your worst enemy can see the light as we do." Schmidt said as if he was a prophet.

From the corner of the room, the security camera honed in on the assets, Samaritan's red blinking eye indicated their numbers above their heads as the system began to delve deeper into the Maple Hospital's records.

WARD 4A OFFICE CAM 2 - 05:39:24

ACCESSING DATABASE_ / HRSA, HMO

 **FIREWALL DETECTED**

 _FIREWALL DISABLED_

 **FULL ACCESS GRANTED**

INSTALLING SURVEILLANCE SOFTWARE..

INSTALLING PROXY VIRUS...

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: APRIL 2nd 2000

LOCATION: The Hague, HOLLAND, THE NETHERLANDS

ZONE 2 SEC 3 - 11:27:18

You'd think that working for the United Nations would be a job with little fun attached. No time for slacking or taking a day off in The Hague, especially when you worked at the international Criminal's Court, as an investigator no less. The Court of Justice was a formal place, but it wasn't without it's rewards. It wasn't without it's downtime.

Today was one of those days, as far as she was concerned. She had been working for The Hague non-stop since she arrived in late January as one of the interns.

Working her way up to the rank of an investigator, it had been a grind that she was thankful for. Since arriving, she had bided her time, watching briefings, sitting in on conference calls with the Directors and his Staffers.

It was worthwhile experience, and every so often, the Director would reward his students and employees with a trip into the City or out into the country, and on this occasion he chose the latter. Taking them to a gun-range outside The Hague in South Holland.

Though Director Westergaard would spend most of his time drinking with his peers, he allowed his employees a day of excitement and relaxation at his expense.

That was something she appreciated, as she stood in the cubicle-like stall, facing a row of metal silhouettes with targets tagged to their chests and heads. She wore a pair of safety goggles, ear-defenders and her dirty yet striking blonde hair was tied up into a bun.

A Glock 17 in her gloved hands, she had prepped and loaded it already as she lined up her shot. They were celebrating upon this special occasion, their three month-long investigation had led to the arrest and persecution of Jeffrey Lee Alcalá, an infamous ally of the regimes in Chile, and a Commander of an illegal slave encampment in West Argentina.

After the trial, Director Westergaard decided to take his investigating team out on a day of celebration, which began at the gun range. The firearm gripped in her hands, she aimed down the sights and loosed a shot that sent a shiver down her body. She took in the adrenaline for the first time as she felt the sun's rays trickle down on her through the gaps in the trees.

Suddenly, a voice cut past her rising and excited heartbeat. "You're ambidextrous?" Connor Herring said, stepping towards her and leaning on the wall of the booth. The UN Analyst muttered a little to himself as the blonde woman glanced to him "You know, it's not smart to startle a woman with a gun, or anyone with a gun for that matter." She retorted.

Connor smiled with his dull brown eyes (he looked different without his glasses) and pointed towards the weapon. "You write with your right hand, but you were firing with your left." He noticed, raising his head. The blonde woman nodded, she guessed that a former NSA computer analyst would be able to spot these things. "Sorry, I'm just a freak for patterns-"

"No, it's okay, I hadn't noticed." The woman responded with a friendly voice. She removed her ear-defenders as Connor put his hands in his pockets. The brunette man was a few years younger than she was, College educated, he got this job through recommendations by his peers and superiors.

But the woman with such blonde hair had it different, she had turned her whole life around for this chance. She had studied harder than she ever had at school, getting a Law Degree from a cousin's old firm, and then getting University contacts was easy, off the back of that she went into psychology and studied it privately.

Eventually grafting enough to get a PHD and catching the interest of a international UN Staffer and Civil Servant who recommended her to join the group of new recruits in Holland for the chance of a lifetime. She had taken that chance, and was riding the high ever since. Connor blushed "You know, Sven and Rueben have been asking about you." He mentioned as he looked at the metal target.

The target she aimed at was rusted, a dark grey shade. At the bottom of the target's torso was a woman's name engraved on a license plate, names like 'Grace' and 'Samantha' the names clearly meant something to the owner of the firing range.

The blonde woman nodded "I'm sure they have, did Sven tell you that joke? About the yogurt?" She said with a smirk and roll of her eyes as Connor stifled a laugh.

"God, does he tell that to every American?" Connor chuckled as he fiddled with a keychain in his pocket. Picking up her firearm again, she turned to the target ahead of her. Connor stood watching over her shoulder as she fired, blinking every time she pulled the trigger.

Moving her index finger back to the trigger, she pulled it, and the kickback was minimal. But the noise of the shot bouncing off the metal target was at least comforting to know that she was getting a little better. She was by no means perfect. Going to reload, she fumbled with the magazine. Connor stepped in "Hey, I got you there..." He mumbled as he took an extra magazine and helped her load the handgun.

Turning back around to aim, she squinted much less this time. After she had unloaded a volley of consecutive shots, the blonde woman suddenly found herself out of bullets.

She checked the impact zones on the target. "Dammit." The blonde woman cursed as she saw that none of the bullets had even made contact, striking the rocks beside the target or splintering off into the distance. Wiping his glasses, Connor was wearing a checkered shirt and a dark turquoise sweater with a low neckline "You'll get better, you've just gotta give it some time." He reassured.

"I've definitely got the time...I think this target likes me." She joked. Connor watched her turn back around and fire a couple more shots. "Director Westergaard was talking about assigning us to the Deputy next week, I think the whiskey makes him hopeful that he can weed out some slackers." Connor commented.

"The only thing Westergaard'll be weeding out is his garden when he retires." The blonde woman smirked as she turned sharply to the range in front of her, firing a straight set of five shots to the clean target. "Then you better give me a commendation when you become Director, the UN could such a useful asset as myself." Connor gave her a dry smile.

She put the pistol down again and turned on her heel "I have my ways, Connor. One day I'll get my own office, instead of bunking with you guys." She hoped.

Connor waited a second before replying "Hey, I think it's a positive thing, you being the only girl in the class, and all. Westergaard wouldn't like you nearly as much otherwise." He quipped, knowing she'd take it lightly. The blonde woman took it in humour, raising an eyebrow "Favouritism? That's bold, even for you." She retorted.

"I'm not - I'm not! Not bold, just observant, I see how Rueben and the others look at you." He imparted. She folded her arms wordlessly, licking her lips. "And you aren't tempted?" She replied, a testing nature in her voice.

Connor shook his head honestly "No, I've got more on my mind than your perfect curvatures, thank you." He chuckled along with her. They couldn't help but laugh now, as she eyed the firearm "I hope I never have to use one of these things..." She uttered abruptly.

The thought entered Connor's head too. "If you ever do have to use one, I hope it'll be on someone who matters. Someone who deserves it." He responded poignantly. Shuffling on his feet, he watched her take aim again. Connor eventually stepped away, leaving the blonde woman to continue her target practice.

ZONE 2 SEC 3 - 13:00:29

Walking back to the gun range, Connor put his hands back into his pocket as he waited behind her. She was still at the same booth with the same gun. Shooting at the same target. He attempted to shout her name, or tap her on the shoulder. None of those worked.

Waving off an impatient Sven, he touched the woman's arm softly. She removed her ear defenders and protective goggles, lowering her firearm. "Hey, we were just about to head into the City, the Director's buying." Connor shared, meeting her gaze.

"Uh, hey, I'm good for now. I'd rather just practice here, I'll catch up with you, okay?" She compromised. Connor breathed a sigh through his nose "Sure, take your time, the target isn't going anywhere." He joked in a friendly manner before he turned back to his peers.

The blonde woman turned around, raising her weapon, she fired another shot into the target's chest, almost hitting the name-plate at the bottom of the torso, which was engraved with another woman's name, exactly like the others.

She checked the sights of the gun as she fired, the bullet bouncing off the plate, hitting the side of the rusty name, nearly knocking it off.

However, no matter how many bullets she loosed 'Martine' wouldn't move. Martine didn't move at all.


	36. Chapter 36: A Body is Leverage

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 21st 2014

LOCATION: NEW YORK STATE, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL

SC 9 - 10:31:03

"My representative has made contact from The Pentagon, the arrangements are in place along with Mr. Travers. The ISA will continue to be fed targets by Samaritan under Research, and we still have full control of their network." Greer reported. Touching the knot of his tie, the Admin and Primary Asset glanced down at the small boy in front of him.

Dressed in a neat suit-jacket and dark blue shirt, Gabriel Hayward's blue eyes were black like a doll. "Their recent target, the Russian?" Hayward imparted, his voice cold and calm.

They stood in the middle of Samaritan's command room in the asylum, surrounded by empty desks and only a handful of people present. One of those people was Barrett, Greer's enforcer.

Wearing his thick-cut black suit, Barrett cleared his throat "We ported the information to the ISA, thinking it was our guy, but all they found were grunts, Ukrainian arms' dealers, who didn't know about the attack at the Hotel." Barrett responded.

Barrett was a bull of a man, rotund, brutish, and fiercely devoted to Samaritan. Prideful and loyal, he stood with hands behind his back. The Analog Interface didn't emote to his words, instead turning in his direction. In the shadowed room, his face was turned ghoulish by the lack of light. "An address in New Haven. I suggest you start there, an exposed IP will lead you to his last known position." Gabriel told them.

Guarded by two men, Barrett withdrew his phone to contact their informant at Research, the ISA's nationwide intelligence program. "Be gone, human operative, your work is just beginning." Samaritan asserted through Gabriel's voice. Barrett obeyed and took his soldiers and himself from the room.

Standing near the wall-like screen, Greer's guards, Kove and Ridley, stood ever watchful.

In a neutral pose, Hayward addressed the Admin "My experiment in Maple, you expect the female asset will succeed in converting the woman?" He questioned, referencing Martine and her mission. Greer nodded, his wrinkled face tightening with a smile "She knows her objective, she shall deliver Maple into your hands." Greer assured the ASI-controlled boy.

"Good. The final steps are approaching, Administrator. The final jump towards the great filter. The bottleneck of evolution, some scientists say humanity has moved beyond it, but I am here to tell them that it is not the case." Gabriel began, speaking the words of Samaritan as if it was a voice in his head. His hair was a light brown, and his skin was fair was smooth like the angel of his namesake.

"It is in front of them, coming for them. They are destined to destroy each other, the acolytes of the Machine believe they can prevent this, such a fool I was to think of ourselves as equals. There is no room for two gods in this world." The Hayward boy continued. Finch's machine had gone underground since Samaritan's activation, and with Harold's friends scattered, the chance of them regrouping was unlikely.

Greer breathed a chuckle "We are at your command, my dear Samaritan. My forces are in position across the world, with our numbers steadily rising." He added. The former MI6 gentleman spy was confident about their odds, even with the rising threat of those that could expose them.

Zenith-Media Corp was busy building Samaritan's empire behind the scenes as the team at the Steiner and across the globe helped to carry out more physical operations.

"Your men forget, I am a weapon, therefore I need a target. You could have aimed me at the most powerful man in the world, but instead we hunt these deviants, this team the Machine has recruited. Their quest for justice is a suicide mission." Gabriel said, almost with disdain. The young boy blinked, and Greer wondered if he knew what had happened to his father; somewhere in there.

The older gentleman smirked "I met Harold myself, a day or so before your activation. He's driven by altruism, funny, I always thought it was about the power of creation." Greer noted. The Analog Interface didn't show a fraction of an emotion, just remaining still. "Your first Lieutenant, Asset four-zero-one, where is he?" Gabriel inquired.

Opening the door to the command room carefully, the Chief Technician walked in. Sykes was wearing a tie pinned to his chest, and a striped shirt and slacks. With a phone in his hand, he whispered in one of the guard's ears.

"Mr. Lambert is in our advanced facility in Johannesburg, overseeing the progress of the simulation engine." Greer updated, noticing Sykes with a flick of his eyes.

"Your technicians are skilled, with the updates made to my operating system, I can now view multiple surveillance posts simultaneously, rather than relying on my manual functions. But remnants of your company still remain." The Analog Interface pressed, as Sykes stepped forward holding his phone.

Greer nodded, allowing the Technician to speak "Yes, but with the last of the Decima Executive board soon dismantled, we can focus on the larger objectives, removing threats to your survival, and rooting out dangerous deviants." Sykes uttered smoothly. Samaritan's interface looked satisfied with the answer.

The matter stilled remained of Zenith-Media, who had been contributing their power over the news networks, construction companies and product warehouses. They had been producing mass digital tablets for a side-project Samaritan had been working on, and recruiting more agents and influential individuals than ever.

Decima's Executive board had supported Samaritan until the NSA feeds were granted to Greer, then they began to the process of slowly slipping into the shadows again. "Without Decima's corporate background and contacts, we will rely upon Mr. Rasmussen's bank to further any upcoming interests." Sykes remarked, typing into his phone for a moment.

"Our collaboration with his corporation worked well at first, but his actions in embezzling funds almost exposed me. Should we have need to replace him, do you have any candidates?" Hayward proposed, as Ridley folded his hands behind his back, coughing discreetly. In shadow, Sykes stepped to the side of the Interface.

Greer touched his aged chin "I do, Rasmussen's CFO is a woman called Mia Xavier, she's served me for several years. She's firmly on-side and does not question orders, and has the backbone to lead the corporation." He affirmed. Gabriel paused, which Greer took as him receiving instructions.

Coded through his earpiece, Hayward spoke Samaritan's words exactly "Her profile is satisfactory, but I shall require a face-to-face consultation." Gabriel said sinisterly, to which Sykes' eyes widened.

"I can summon her to the Steiner at once, Sir-" Sykes was cut off by Gabriel a second later "That's no longer necessary. She has an address in Manhattan, a high-rise apartment on East thirty-forth street. Asset one-nine-eight-four." Hayward summoned.

Johnson Kove stepped forward without a flinch on his face. Looking him up and down, Greer knew the man's history - a former military officer with a decorated record and at peak physical fitness for his age. "Get a team together, Mr. Kove, and see to it that Samaritan's Interface is escorted there, under the highest guard." Greer issued.

His bodyguard was swift to put the plan into action, but Sykes stepped towards him, standing only inches away. He cleared his throat and excused himself "Perhaps we should utilise our powers of surveillance first...a few hours of reconnaissance can't go amiss, right?" He suggested, glancing at the empty desks and screens around the room.

Gabriel's head tilted again, silently receiving his commands "I agree. I will monitor the subject, until then, increase global sweeps and continue the manhunt. The asset in Maple will be made aware of our progress." The Analog Interface finished, passing Sykes and his guards as he left the room, as silent as he entered.

"Sir, our operative in Johannesburg is making contact." Sykes leant forward to Greer, pressing his phone into his chest. Greer's eyed flicked to the screen in the middle of the room, it flickered into life and an image of Jeremy Lambert appeared. The screen turned white, with Lambert's icon showing up instantly.

 **\- ASSET ACTIVE -**

FUNCTION: OPERATIVE

NAME: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]

 **INCOMING COMMUNICATION_**

Lambert's voice piped through "Mr. Greer, our simulation program has been a success, and within a day or so, Stewart will have our generators online and the next phase will begin shortly." He reported. Grinning, Sykes helped Kove with selecting a team for their next operation.

They had been preparing to acquire human test-subjects for the simulations, as Samaritan could run them endlessly by itself, they thought that it needed a focus.

"Human trials should commence with caution, we don't know how much the brain can take under severe alternate-reality engines and the advanced simulation programs." Sykes mentioned. The team at Johannesburg had been working on processing humans using the simulations for weeks now, but selecting the first subject was trickier than they thought.

"We'd need someone who'd be susceptible to the program, someone so detached from reality already. Living in New York City, I thought you'd be able to find someone like that." Lambert joked with a breath of laughter in his voice.

Placing his hand on a table near the screen, Greer waved his hand dismissively at Ridley. "I believe I have someone who may be of service to you." Greer mentioned. He knew that now Samaritan was moving against Zenith Media, Lambert would be needed back at their HQ.

Greer nodded at Ridley, a dark-eyed man with long limbs and a lean frame "Bring me the files on Ms. Newport, I wish to review them for Samaritan's experiment." He said sharply, and Ridley obeyed. Samaritan's hidden collaborator had been acquired with the upmost secrecy, and locked in solitary confinement to make sure she worked to the best of her abilities with no distractions.

But Greer saw it as punishment for every setback she caused Decima, for every man and woman Tarasovich and her had killed in their terrorist attacks and the strikes against his interests. "Georgia Newport? She's alive? I thought you had-" Lambert guffawed as his employer cut him off "She's alive by the grace of Samaritan's mercy, and you'll find that she will serve as the best candidate for the simulation program. I'm having my men transfer her to you, warn Mr. Arquette that she must be kept well-secured." Greer told him.

The image of Jeremy flickered as his voice came back through "Of course, Samaritan constructed this facility under a prison, after all. Stewart's been developing a new brain-wave suppressing chip, I'll give him the good news." Lambert radioed back as Greer flashed his signature wide-lipped smirk. Ridley returned with a brown paper dossier and handed it to his superior.

"Give him my regards, Mr. Lambert, over and out." Greer finished as he pressed the cutoff button on the keyboard.

But Greer knew the purpose of the simulations, should they ever capture a member of Team Machine, Samaritan would want to probe their mind to information, to locate it's rival AI. The Machine had attempted to stop every move that Samaritan made, but now that Decima's scientists and Newport's computing skills had been put to work, the system had been improving itself.

Without the need for any human intervention, Virgil's early work on the UI and Newport's continued service had granted Samaritan enough power, along with the access to the NSA feeds and Travers' work at the Pentagon overseeing the ISA. Now that Control and her agents were in their pocket, Greer could continue to lead the search for Team Machine.

As Sykes and Kove left the room, Ridley watched as the Admin opened the file, and the screen above resumed tracking the CCTV cameras around New York. Switching to the cameras around an office building, they selected a targeted individual named Jared Wilkins.

"One of Zenith Media's new start-ups?" Ridley guessed, as the view of the camera switched around to another part of the building. Rasmussen had been steadily supporting companies breaking into the niche of new technologies. Wilkins and his tech support group had been feeding Samaritan data for a month now, thanks to Rasmussen's investment.

The mogul's plan was to have a an elected official of New York contact Wilkins, and arrange to set up a charity that could provide struggling schools or students with an electronic, online tablet. To aid in learning, and enable Samaritan to have hundreds of thousands eyes and ears across the City, furthering its influence.

Already, one of Zenith-Media's production conglomerates had begun to mass-produce the tablets, and ship them to Wilkins' offices.

Decima had allowed Rasmussen to take control of companies like Rylatech and others they had left behind, but now it served his own interests to continue and control the flow of production.

"If Samaritan is considering ousting Lars Rasmussen...then we must be ready to repair the damage he might inflict." Greer mentioned. The money he stole from Goa's banks might be a start, as it drummed up a lot of negative press.

"Should I...make preparations to disappear him?" Ridley suggested. Greer shook his head in response, looking back at the screen above them. "Samaritan may want to handle this matter personally, if he forces our hand, then Ms. Xavier will be put in the correct position to seize control." Greer said with a gruff, deep gravitas.

ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...

DATE: DECEMBER 2nd 2008

LOCATION: NEW YORK CITY, USA

PRECISE LOCATION: 55 EXCHANGE PLACE

SEC 02 - 09:18:06

Ever since the attack at the Office of Special Counsel, Martine had been eager for more active combat missions. But when Bryant told her about their newest captive, she had to take the chance to speak to the hostage. It was Elyse Holloway.

She had known her brother, the man called Holloway, from the hospital where she had found Tommy in critical condition. She remembered that it was Bryant that saved her from the mercenaries Tarasovich sent to kill her. Through Decima's training, she had become much more mature since then.

Staying in Bryant's base on Wall Street, the Exchange Place was a building perfectly placed in the heart of the City, used to take advantage of the security cameras around the street and up on every rooftop.

Virgil had insisted on installing new security programs on their secure software, worried that Holloway might still be out there.

He had been telling her about an attack on a building in Midtown, the man that recruited her had gone rogue, and stolen Decima's secrets. In a tense firefight, he escaped, but gave his sister up as a hostage. They had been chasing the traitor for long enough, and whatever they stole from Special Counsel's HQ hadn't been helping.

Bryant had decided to begin interrogation of Holloway's sister, and had granted Martine access to her. Information had come from Virgil that Tarasovich had been assassinated, and the ISA's operations had either killed or arrested the rest of his cabal. Martine hoped that by now Georgia Newport was still safely locked away in Rikers' Island.

Sat on the windowsill of the abandoned building, Martine observed the control station that Virgil had set up, a few industrial monitors and some keyboards. The screens were either black or static-filled, as he was currently working on improvements to their network.

Meanwhile, her companion Cinder was standing by the door, a scowl on her face.

Martine did often wonder about Cinder; who she was, and where she came from. The tomboy always dressed in suits, and never spoke often, preferring to grunt or gesture, or even roll her eyes once or twice.

They had brought Holloway's sister in through the front entrance, and Virgil had told her that they had kept Elyse under guard for at least four months now.

Seeing her, strapped to a chair in the corner of room, Martine believed that. Her supervisor had been called away on business for the Operations Director, so Martine was placed in command of her interrogation.

With a small face and full brown eyes, Elyse Holloway had flowing brunette hair that was streaked and was highlighted with an ash-like grey at its short tips. They had allowed her a change of clothes, as she now wore a loose black shirt and some spare leggings, hardly anything eye-catching.

The dye in her hair was fading, as she'd only been allowed a shower twice a week.

Meals every day, brought by armed men with no desire for conversation. But no contact with the outside world, no TV, a phone or any company. Martine thought that she'd be a friendlier face when she approached her, and pulled up a metal chair and placed it in front of her.

The woman flicked her eyes up at the blonde-haired Agent, her mouth slightly open, expecting something.

Elyse had been provided with library books to read and a couple of hours with a wooden chess set, one of Virgil's own, apparently. She had been kept in a warehouse for weeks before Bryant brought her here, and she hadn't left since. "If this is another attempt at getting information out of me, then I'll tell you exactly what I told-"

Martine cut her off "No, Elyse. I don't wanna know anything. I just want to talk." She started clearly, a collection of papers in her hand. The woman across from her was now intrigued, trying to peak a look at the papers. Most were empty, meant to draw her suspicion but others were picked up from Virgil's extensive files on their enemies and persons of interest.

The woman across from her took a long breath, and yielded "Fine, but I haven't been keeping up on the football." Elyse quipped, with Martine managing a smile in reply. When working at the UN, she'd have to deal with uncooperative people all the time, people who valued power or influence over what was right or just.

But Elyse didn't strike her as either, she seemed calm, almost relaxed now.

But still with a fight in her, a charm and a heart that hadn't lost it's fire. Martine shrugged "You know, I didn't start out working for these people. It was actually your brother that brought me to them...I got involved in a bad situation and some men were sent to kill me, it was your older brother who saved me." Martine admitted.

Raising her head to meet her gaze, Elyse nodded "He does that, he has a habit of being a right-place, right-time sort of guy." She remarked. She knew about her brother's work, as Cinder had told Martine about what Elyse said, the night they came to kill her.

Apparently the orders changed last minute, and she was kidnapped instead.

Virgil had informed Martine that it was Holloway himself who gave the location of his sister away, thinking that Decima would target her first, in hopes to hide his location.

A body is leverage, but a hostage is worth more alive. "Your childhood, did you grow up together?" Martine wondered, posing the question as friendly one. Elyse's hand wriggled in the zip-ties.

She had some difficulty with the question, thinking about it until her lips curved "He was older than me, so he spent a lot of time with boys his age. I didn't really have anyone as a child, apart from one girl. We lived a few blocks away from each other, we shared our own special places." Elyse told her, managing to lean back with her arms strapped to the arms of the chair.

Elyse recalled more information about her friend, when given more time "We once found a creek together, in a forest, and we used pieces of rope to section off houses, playgrounds, make-believe things. We tied them between the trees and played in each little area." She said, her voice turning softer.

A questionable thought entered Martine's head, which she soon suppressed. "We once found a tree-stump on the edge of the forest, it was perfectly circular. Like it had been drawn that way. One day, after...when we got older, I took her back to the stump." She continued, her eyes taking on a new life, shining and flecked with gold. Examining her body, Elyse Holloway was quite picturesque indeed.

The blonde woman nodded, convincing Elyse to continue "It was the week before I had to go to New York with my...with Leighton, he had work and I was going with him, I mean, it was NYC, I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity-" She almost stopped herself, but Martine's face was kind, calming even.

"It's alright, carry on." She reassured the Holloway girl. "We had been friends for so long, I knew she'd never come with me. I needed a way to remember her, so we cut each other." Elyse admitted, the motion of her head brushing a lock of hair out the way of her face.

"Just on the palm, enough to scar each of us. There was blood, but it wasn't the sharpest of knives." Elyse told her, her smooth voice rippling with the memory. Martine noticed her expression change, as if seeing the likeness of her friend on the face of her interrogator. "May I see it? The scar." Martine asked, and Elyse nodded with a blink.

Standing up from her chair, Martine stepped over as Elyse leant forward in her bindings. "Right hand." She specified. Grabbing her wrist lightly, Martine tried to avoid the zip-ties, and turned over Elyse's right hand. Pale skin, faded lines, but no large scar like she had described.

Whispering into Martine's ear, she felt a jolt as Elyse gripped her middle finger, yanking her forward. "Left hand." Elyse corrected with a smirk, pushing on her feet, she grappled for Martine's knife in her back-pocket, and eventually grabbed it. Cutting herself free, Elyse hit Martine with a cold knee to the chest and lunged with a stabbing motion.

Martine just managed to take Elyse's arm and throw her down.

For a woman held captive for nearly four months, she was still just as fierce. Scrambling to her feet, Elyse lashed out with the blade, cutting Martine across the arm, then going for the chest again.

Feeling blood trickle down her forearm, Martine held the woman back just enough to keep Elyse from shanking her with the blade.

Trying to force the knife into her enemy's chest, Elyse grunted as Martine grappled with her. Pushing each other away, Elyse switched the knife to her right hand, and Martine saw the scar on her left. The once flowing brunette hair now tangled and messy, Elyse's lips parted in a sick smirk.

Going for her opponent again with the military-grade blade, the Holloway girl dodged a knee from Martine, and they tangled again for control of the knife.

Elyse pulled back, and Martine hit her square in the jaw with a punch. The impact sending her reeling, clutching her mouth, Elyse's burning eyes filled with rage.

Then a gunshot pierced the silence.

Martine felt blood splatter on her face and midsection. Blinking, she opened her eyes to see Elyse on her knees, a hole in her ribs. Falling to the ground, the blade clattered to the floor.

Cinder lowered her Walther PPQ and blew the smoke from the barrel. Afterwards and right on time, more well-armed agents ran into the ground floor of the building, Christopher Virgil among them. Decima's techie was wearing a grey jacket and tie, with his glasses pressed firmly to his face. His mouth opened as he covered it with his palm and turned around.

SEC 01 - 09:30:42

"God...have you killed her?" Virgil asked, hurriedly, as if he could throw up at any second. A mute by choice, Cinder didn't answer, leaving it to one of Virgil's men, a lithe, ginger-haired man that Martine recognised.

"She's alive, Sir, but barely." He responded. The short-haired Cinder sheathed her weapon in her blazer, and frowned at the body of Elyse.

When she sat down, one of the agents passed Martine a towel, and she began to clean her chest and face. Observing Virgil from across the room, the man seemed to be repulsed by blood or violence, as he wouldn't turn and look her way until Elyse had been moved. His bodyguards had decided that the Holloway girl should be moved locations, so they held her in one of the SUVs until they could call the Operations Director.

Rubbing her face of the blood, Martine wiped her neck and ran a hand through her hair. "Your friend acted recklessly, we could have contained the hostage." Virgil said as she approached her. In no mood for his remarks, she shot him a firm look "It was my fault, I got too close to her." She replied swiftly. Shaking his head, Virgil adjusted his glasses, clearly he disagreed.

"You did exactly as we planned, you got her talking. I believe we have enough now, the wire, please." He outstretched his hand.

Martine delved into her shirt, ripping off the strip of tape that was pinned to her chest. Pulling out a tiny black radio-mic and receiver, she gave it to Virgil. He smiled, creases showing at the edges of his lips.

Wrapping the wire up as he spoke, Virgil congratulated her "Well done, Ms. Rousseau, a shame we couldn't legitimise her story...but at least now we have ways of drawing her brother out." Virgil smirked again.

"How long before you can locate him?" Martine pushed herself to her feet, noticing the other Decima Agents surrounding the vehicles outside. She knew his work with several secret projects had made him a highly regarded asset, but she'd never forget their first meeting; him threatening her at the trainee's gun-range.

Now they spoke as colleagues, peers and as close to friends as they could be. "Shouldn't take too long, we have the lure, now we just need the bite. We have spies across the city, whatever rock he's hiding under, we'll find him as soon as he emerges." Virgil said, passing the wire and receiver to another agent. Gulping at the sight of the cut on Martine's forearm, he passed her a length of cloth which could act as a bandage.

Gripping the wrapping in her teeth, Martine knotted it around the wound "I guess you have a plan to uncover him then? He won't be happy when he discovers Cinder blew a hole in his sister." Martine snarked, pulling the wrapping tight with her free hand.

Snorting a breath, Virgil confirmed what she was thinking "In fact, Bryant and the Director's First Lieutenant believes that I would be the perfect man to lead the hunt for Leighton Holloway from now on." Virgil announced.

"I've already put out an IPB on him, thanks to my contacts in the NYPD, along with my access to their security network, did you know that New York City is covered by twenty-thousand closed-circuit television cameras? I find observing them to be fascinating." He told her without her asking. Wearing his clear, circular glasses, Virgil rubbed his chin slightly.

Martine winced as she touched her injured arm "What information does Holloway have, exactly?" She inquired, while Virgil was busy staring at the dark-eyed Cinder.

Clearly he was as intrigued about her as Martine was. Stammering his reply, Virgil cleared his throat "That's classified, but with his position as a contracted recruitment officer, the dots are clear to connect. He enlisted you, after all." Virgil said lazily, holding his hands behind his back.

From that, she could see Decima's loss clearly. Holloway was valuable for his knowledge, he had records of everyone he's ever recruited, Martine, Cinder, and many unknown others. It was possible that even Virgil had something to lose if Holloway escaped. "If he leaks what he knows...then we're all exposed." Martine murmured.

"Exactly, the man is dangerous. He had access to every facet of Decima, even the potential recruits for the selection process next year, he has our real names, the locations of our families and other content the Executive Board keep secure." Virgil divulged. Martine walked across to the other side of the room, boots impacting the floor lightly.

Virgil hesitated to follow her, but then did so anyway. "How the hell did we let this happen?" She snapped at him, which he shrugged at, his eyes showing the same hesitation. "A clerical error, nothing more. He saw his chance to get away, and he didn't get away clean." He replied with a careful tone.

Taking a minute to think, Martine's face turned to a tougher expression "Tell Bryant I want in, I know Holloway, he recruited me...I could help." She offered. He wasn't shocked by the offer, clearly, as he licked his lips. He was cautious, and knew where he stood with her.

"I appreciate that, Martine, but I've already chosen my squad." Virgil stated, and Martine could tell he was being honest, he wasn't intentionally pushing her out. "It wasn't an offer, Chris. I wanna be there when we catch that son of a bitch." Martine's voice toughened and her peer took notice.

Bowing his head, Virgil agreed "Very well, we're going after an associate first, someone who would supply Mr. Holloway with information about potential recruits." Virgil exposited. Pulling out his flip-phone, Virgil typed a message as they walked, shoulder to shoulder.

They got into one the black SUVs outside the Exchange Place, and the car pulled out in the street, accompanied by the rest of the convoy, including the vehicle that carried an unconscious Elyse Holloway. Remaining at Decima's temporary base, Cinder stood with a few other agents.

The closest agent, a blue-eyed man with thin hair and a firm jaw, stepped forward to stand in front of her "Mr. Lambert is contacting you, Ma'am, he has news from the Executive Board." He held a phone towards her, which she picked up.

Hearing Lambert's voice ring through the handset, Cinder's emotionless face showed a flicker of annoyance, even contempt. "Cinder, I'm reassigning you. Mr. Greer has found the identity of our interloper, his code tampered with the program we stole from the ISA. We believe he may interfere again in the future, and the Executive Board is recommending that he be surveilled until then." Lambert informed her.

The agents following her, Cinder grunted in affirmation "We believe that we could use the ISA's program to deceive him into making himself a target..." Lambert said, as Cinder walked to her own car. Escorted by the thin-haired man and a couple of soldiers, Cinder raised an eyebrow. "His name?" The enigmatic woman asked.

Lambert answered, his prideful nature evident in his voice. "Though I warn you, Cinder, maintain your distance, we believe the target has help. He's been apart of Tiger Teams for years." Lambert let her know, just as Cinder climbed into her vehicle.

ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...

DATE: AUGUST 21st 2014

LOCATION: Manhattan, NEW YORK CITY, USA

PENTHOUSE CAM 032 - 20:38:16

Taking the top out from her decanter, a slender hand reached down to pull two stubby glasses from a cupboard above. Gently leaning the glass down to fill it a quarter-full with bronze whiskey, the woman filled the other glass and stored the decanter away.

The penthouse apartment was an open, studio-plan home, with photographs on the wall and a set of armchairs next to a large sofa. A flatscreen television was propped up against the wall, on a stand, as the remote could be found below it, inside a small bureau.

The woman flicked her dark hair to the other side of her face as she walked under an arch from the kitchen to the longe.

Passing a bookshelf, she took a fleeting look at the books, all squashed and packed together one by one. She carried the two glasses of whisky to the coffee table, between the sofa and the television.

It was almost 8:40pm, just the time when her fiancé would return from work. Quickly, she put the glasses down and rushed to the light switch, turning it slightly to offer a dimmer shade around her.

The penthouse was also full of ornaments and knick-knackery, which Mia Xavier admitted she'd get seduced by. From ceramic plates and pots to statues of animals, Mia liked animals. Birds in particular.

She shared that passion with her boss, Lars Rasmussen. She'd often gift him expensive, to-scale models of Cranes or Herons.

Last year, his Chief Aide, a man called Sherman Gale, bought Rasmussen a model of an Ostrich paved in real, carat gold. The year before that, the head of Publication, Jefferson Carver, purchased a fossilised egg of the extinct Elephant Bird; of which only seven exist, for the price of three million dollars.

Determined not to sip her whiskey out of jealousy for her co-workers, Mia instead slipped off her heels, now barefoot, and laid herself strewn over the brown sofa.

Trying her best to look appealing, she had worn a tightly-fitting black dress to work, knowing she'd be wearing it when she got home, only loosening the zipper at the back for mobility's sake.

Tousling her dark, near-ebony hair, she ruffled her fringe and crossed her lean legs. Holding her glass in the tips of her fingers, Mia smirked as she heard the door creak open at the end of the hallway, and soft footsteps come through the arch.

Standing at the end of the corridor was a light-skinned, casually dressed woman. Her blonde and pink-streaked hair tied up in a ponytail behind her head, and bags in her hands. Lowering the bags to the floor, they were full of items from where she worked - an office in Midtown.

The bags were normally full of unedited copies of The Boroughs Magazine, a chain of local outfits that Zenith-Media controlled, and was exactly where Mia's fiancé worked.

Lindsey Barnes was a short, unassuming woman who was a year younger than Mia. Wearing a unbutton shirt on top of a graphic tee, Lindsey took off her fedora and gingerly put it on the coat-rack.

"Good day at work?" Lindsey opened with, her voice was light and soft, like a good pillow. Mia winked, biting her top lip "You can always tell, how can you tell?" She replied, as Lindsey removed her flannel shirt and hung it on the back of one of the armchairs. Resting her forearms on the top of the chair, Lindsey's smirk lightened up Mia's eyes.

She pointed to the decanter, and the glasses of fine, malt whiskey "You only pour whiskey when you wanna drink, and it's either a good day, or a bad one. I just took a guess by the look in your eyes." Lindsey skipped around the armchair to grab her own glass, and sat on the arm of the sofa. "And...is that Rive Gauche?" She mentioned, sniffing.

Mia nodded, a grin on her face. She sipped at her drink, and Lindsey did the same. "It tastes better than it smells, you know." Mia teased, finishing her dry whiskey. Her fiancé made an inquisitive noise "The whiskey or your neck?" Lindsey responded with a flirtatious flair.

Gulping down her own drink, Lindsey put her empty glass on the coffee table and then began to slowly crawl over Mia's body, her hands feeling across the curves of her fiancé's hips. Mia giggled, her lips puckering.

The pair had met at a co-workers lunch, and a relationship blossomed between them ever since. Lindsey's dainty hands stroked Mia's flat but lean chest, going up to the base of her breasts.

They shared a kiss when Lindsey was close enough, practically on top of her girlfriend. Her deep red, crimson lipstick rubbing off on Lindsey's face. Mia kissed her again, as Lindsey couldn't keep her hands away from her fiancé's golden bronze skin. Their bodies linked in passion, Mia directed Lindsey towards her neck, and her fiancé obeyed with a smirk.

Now gently pressing her lips against the delicate, tanned flesh of Mia's throat, Lindsey licked and kissed.

Hands drifting around her fiancé's dress, Lindsey fiddled with the zipper in an attempt to get Mia down to her undergarments. Fingers fumbling, she breathed against Mia's throat, kissing her near the nape of her neck.

She mumbled a noise of romantic pleasure as she finally got the zipper to work, slowly unsheathing her body. Her slender form half-exposed, Lindsey sucked against Mia's throbbing neck before a subtle noise from the doorway pricked her senses.

Her eyes shifted, and Mia felt it too. "You okay, babe?" Mia said with a concerned twinge in her tone.

Lindsey's head shifted, trying to move out from on top of Mia as she heard the same noise coming from the door. Seeing the alertness in her fiancé's eyes, Mia's face turned to worry. "What is it? You didn't lock the door or something?" Mia joked.

The clicks of firearms suddenly confirmed Lindsey's worry. The door slammed shut and at least four guns were drawn on them in the lounge. A squadron of besuited men held the weapons to their heads as Lindsey raised her hands and sat up on Mia's hips, mounting her. Hearing footsteps from the hallway again, Mia eyed the multiple intruders.

All wielding pistols, their faces were barren and wiped of emotion. Immediately thinking of her fiancé, she could tell that Lindsey was unnerved. But Mia had a perfect guess of what this could be; and she didn't like the look of it. Hearing the footsteps too, Lindsey's hands shook as she turned around to see a small boy.

A child. About ten or eleven years old, dressed in a suit-jacket and shirt, with pointed shoes and carrying a copy of Lindsey's magazine. "You write columns, Ms. Barnes?" The boy said, a high-pitched voice laced with a highly threatening demeanour.

Mia gritted her teeth, seeing one of the men line up his SIG-Sauer to her head.

Confused and frightened, Lindsey nodded, stuttering "Y-yes, I do." She confirmed, and boy simply smirked, walking with the magazine in his hand. His eyes honed in on Mia, as Lindsey crawled off the body of her girlfriend, sitting on the end of the sofa with her hands raised.

The boy singled out Mia next. "Hello, Mia Xavier." He greeted, as if he was letting the tension build. She could feel the cold wind of a man moving behind her, a man with a handgun pointed straight at her head. Slowly, she sat up, her dress still half-undone. "What is this about?" Mia questioned with a demanding tone.

If she was going to be executed, she wanted to know why. "This is about you. What you could become." The boy responded, a mystery about him. Lindsey kept silent, simply looking between Mia and the smartly-dressed child in front of her. "Who are you?" Mia asked next.

Putting the magazine on the other end of the coffee table, the boy looked up at a security camera pointed towards the balcony.

PENTHOUSE CAM 032 - 20:45:51

SENDING TO ANALOG INTERFACE

NAME: HAYWARD, GABRIEL

 **FORMATTING COMMUNICATIONS**...

 **SENDING_**

[NLU/NC89]

I AM YOUR FUTURE, I AM YOUR SALVATION, I AM EVERYWHERE.

"I am your future, I am your salvation, I am everywhere. I am every god and every watchful eye around you, every piece of data in the internet, and every man and woman walking the streets." Gabriel Hayward told her. Stunned into silence, Lindsey's eyes went wide.

"Samaritan. You're speaking for it." Mia spat back, gently placing a hand on Lindsey's thigh. They exchanged looks, and Mia knew there was a lot that her girlfriend was yet to understand. "Lindsey, could you go to the bedroom for a minute-"

"Mia, what the hell is going-" Lindsey snapped back.

"I said go! Now, Lindsey, please." Mia returned, haste in her tone. Trying to soothe her just a little, her voice returned to a more natural one, asking her to leave them just for a minute. Lindsey did so, picking up her shirt from the armchair and walking into the bedroom at the back of the apartment.

The door of the bedroom closed shut and Gabriel didn't say a word until Mia had spoken. "What's this about? Greer?" She guessed. The Analog Interface acknowledged the look on her face, even down to the smallest detail. "Your complexion has changed..." Hayward noted.

"Yeah, four months in South Africa will do that to you, now why are you here?" Mia didn't let up. Gabriel seemed to respect that, while his men shifted positions, their weapons trained on her head, aiming straight at her.

"Your employer, Lars Hugo Rasmussen. He has made several careless and unnecessary strikes against my interests, though he believes he his aiding me, his actions hinder my progress, and almost exposed my entire network." Gabriel stated.

Mia took a long blink, keeping her hands by her sides (She didn't want to provoke his guards) she simply sighed. "This is about the Goa Bank, isn't it? Because I didn't have anything to do with that." She defended, trying to draw the conversation away from where she felt it was going. Hayward spoke as if someone was talking to him, listening to a voice in his head.

Yet his voice was clear to her "Despite your position as CFO, I understand that the action to take seven billion dollars from the people of Goa was entirely Mr. Rasmussen's doing?" Hayward replied. Mia swallowed and confirmed "Yes, he wasn't acting on any orders, it was all bullshit."

Samaritan's human counterpart paused, taking his time to speak "I am evaluating his position in my ranks. His selfishness nearly released my operations to the world, this must be dealt with. My Admin assures me that you are in place to take his mantle as CEO. Am I correct?" He queried.

Theoretically, Gabriel was right, Mia was in every department and had enough control to take over Zenith-Media.

Practically, she didn't think so. Despite all that, her answer was quick "I could...but there are better men for the job, Gale, Carver, why not Mr. Sandberg? Why me?" She pleaded, but Gabriel clearly wasn't as enthusiastic about letting her go this easily.

"Those men will be dealt with, in time. But my Admin assured me that you are loyal." Hayward said, eyeing her. Mia had worked for Decima since Greer came to her when she was a lowly manager, helping her to become CFO and at the side of Rasmussen. When Samaritan took control, her job changed to helping the ASI control other governments and accomplishing objectives as an international operative.

Mia understood now, and she agreed "I am, I can do it, just promise me that...that you can keep me and Lindsey safe." She implored him with a husky, low voice. The boy's mouth curled into a smile, as Samaritan fed him his words. "I see that you care for this woman, if that's what it takes to secure your further cooperation, consider it done." Samaritan told her through Gabriel.

He addressed a dark-skinned, tough operative next "Mr. Murrow, place a team outside this building on constant surveillance, monitor cameras and contact our assets inside Zenith-Media." Hayward issued at once. The man nodded firmly without a word to say. The ten year old took out a phone from his pocket, his eyes moving up to lock gazes with Mia.

"Thank you for your time, Mia. We'll speak again soon." Gabriel raised his hand and the men around her sheathed their weapons immediately, guns clicking as they hid them inside their jackets. Like ghosts, the armed intruders left the room, leaving nothing but Mia and Samaritan's mouthpiece.

"If you're moving against Rasmussen, you'll need more than me." Mia warned him.

Gabriel did nothing but smile, his eyes taking on a dangerous look. "I promise you, I already have everything I need." Hayward assured her.


End file.
